


It’s All Fun and Games Until the Iron Bull Loses an Eye

by The_Real_Fenris



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Bad Matchmaking, Canon-Typical Violence, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Krem has issues, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Original Character(s), Self-Acceptance, Tags May Change, Trans Inquisitor, Trans Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Fenris/pseuds/The_Real_Fenris
Summary: Alternate title: Krem StorySince The Iron Bull rescued him, Cremisius Aclassi has been protective of the big lout. So when a certain mage from Tevinter starts “sniffing around” the leader of the Chargers, Krem tries to chase him off. However, Dorian’s plan to get Krem off his back by falling in love just might work...





	1. Horns

They had beaten him so badly that – by the time the officer raised his flail to deliver the killing blow – he welcomed it.

The Tevinter Tribune and his men had caught up to him in Hunter Fell, on the Nevarran border. He’d been so certain he was going to make it out of Tevinter. After all, the man they’d sent after him was a _Tribunus angusticlavius,_ rank easily recognizable by the thin stripe on his tunic. Men of this title usually tended to be less than diligent than most about their military duties.

Unfortunately, this Tribune had taken his duty of tracking down the deserter seriously. And he and his men had seemed to enjoy their violence.

It could have been worse, he supposed. They could have raped him. That’s what men like this did to _women_. And by the state of his shirt – half torn to pieces, leaving him brutally exposed – well, he was all too aware what his body looked like out of his carefully-selected clothing. His hard, concealing armor.

Still, he didn’t really want to die. Not like this. Not here, on the dirty sawdust-strewn floor of a seedy tavern. He was still a young man. He’d wanted to do things in life. Travel the world. Serve a higher purpose. Fall in love.

But he could barely lift his head, much less fight anymore.

As the flail came down, he braced himself for a pathetic, undignified death.

Except that he didn’t die.

He wasn’t sure what was happening at first. Someone yelled _Stop!_ Then there was only a blur. A mass of gray. An unsettling but familiar sound of metal bashing flesh. Blood, hot, as it splashed down across his face. Flash of steel whirling through the air. A voice, low and deep, that rumbled like thunder across an empty plain.

_You shouldn’t have done that._

Screams of dying men. Followed by the thunk of bodies hitting the wooden floor, throwing sawdust up into the air.

And then a man was crouching down over him.

Horns, dark like petrified wood. Blood streaming down his face, which was wide as a painter’s canvas. Muscles big as mountains. His chest was a battle-scarred gray wall. Monstrous. Fear trickled through the bloody pulp that was the soldier’s flesh, crystallizing his blood into ice.

 _Horns._ A fucking Qunari. Maker help him.

Soft rumble of concern.

_You’re safe now. I’m Iron Bull. What do you want me to call you?_

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t fight. The most he was able to muster was a weak moan of protest as the Qunari bent over him, scooping him into tree-trunk arms, and lifted with ease off the floor. Then, like a scene out of one of his worst nightmares, the monster stole him away, across the tavern floor, through the door, and into the dark.

\--------------------------

Light flickered at the edge of his vision, coaxing him slowly back to consciousness.

The air was cool around him, scented with the acrid trace of antiseptic. He could feel a gentle weight across his body, the scratch of rough fabric against his flesh. Everything throbbed and ached, and when he shifted and stretched, he felt the bandages tugging at his skin.

He opened his eyes. It took a moment for the world to swim back into focus.

He was in a small, plain room, on a small bed. He didn’t recognize anything other than his own sword, in its scabbard, leaning against the far wall by the door. By the decor – weathered wooden floorboards, unpainted half-broken furniture, cracks in the walls – it was obvious that he was not in the better part of Hunter Fell.

Assuming he was still in Hunter Fell. He had no idea where he was, or for how long he’d been unconscious.

He wasn’t alone. There was a seated at a small, rickety table, a plume in hand, writing in a leather-bound journal. Corked jars and bottles – like those in an apothecary’s shop – sat in a neat row before him. Noticing that his patient was awake, the man stood up and came to stand at the bedside.

“You’re awake,” he noted with an accent that was pure Ferelden. “How do you feel?”

The soldier studied the man. Human, with light-brown skin. Older than him by a decade, at least. He wore simple, clean clothes. His eyes were kind.

He also considered how he felt. When he tried to speak, he had to force the words past his tongue, dry and thick. “Feel like I got run over by a herd of stampeding druffalo.”

At this, the older man smiled wryly. “Sense of humor – good,” he said warmly. “I would like to check your wounds. May I?”

 _No._ He didn’t like anyone touching his body. Strange men in particular made him most uncomfortable. “You a mage?”

“No,” the man said simply. “But I am the one who patched you up when Bull dragged your sorry carcass in here.”

A healer, then. And a name for the monster who had saved him. He didn’t understand _why_ the Qunari had intervened – it didn’t make any sense. The Qunari were _at war_ with Tevinter – had been for as long as anyone could remember. They were the enemy.

This man, though, wasn’t his enemy. During his time in the Imperial Army, he’d been obligated to submit to examinations by the healers. The first company healer he’d bribed to keep his secret safe. Unfortunately the replacement healer hadn’t been so willing to be bribed. Once his secret was out – he ran.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Go ahead.”

Permission granted, the healer moved closer.

The soldier looked everywhere but down as the healer pulled back the blanket. Gritted his teeth and answered questions about his pain as gentle fingers pulled back bandages and prodded at his wounds. Finally, the examination done, the healer pulled the blanket back up, nodding to himself.

At that moment, they heard the sound of a door banging shut. Heavy footsteps thundered through the other room, and then Bull appeared in the doorway.

He loomed so large that he had to duck to avoid banging his horns against the top of the door frame. He wore boots, billowing pantaloons, a shoulder harness that strapped across his mile-wide chest, and little else. The only new addition was a eye patch, and the fresh wounds that the flail had gouged out of his face radiating out from under it.

“Hey, Stitches,” he rumbled. “How’s the kid?”

“I just finished examining her,” the healer said. “The lacerations are healing nicely – no sign of infection. She did suffer a bad concussion but, with enough bed rest, she’ll live.”

 _Her. She._ Each time the healer used the wrong pronoun, the soldier felt his heart die, just a little bit. As though each word was drop of acid on a rock, slowly eroding away the identity he’d spent so long trying to build. His _real_ self. He wanted to shout, _No, you’re wrong!_ but, instead, he just bitterly held his tongue, too weary to argue, reminding himself that these strangers had altruistically saved his life.

Bull clapped a hand briefly down on the healer’s shoulder as he reached the door. “Thanks, Stitches. The others are down in the tavern. Go have a drink. I’ll call you if I need you.”

As the healer slipped out, the Qunari strolled into the room. He picked up the wooden chair by the crook of his finger. Setting it down by the bed, he then sat. It was a wonder that the rickety chair didn’t break under the weight of his massive bulk.

And, fuck, he _was_ massive. The soldier had seen Qunari before in battle, but he’d never seen one this big. He didn’t doubt that the big lout – if he’d wanted to – could easily snap a man’s spine in two.

They sized each other up in silence. Funny how vulnerable the soldier felt lying naked and injured with a giant Qunari between him and his sword.

“So,” the Qunari said finally. “Name’s the Iron Bull. ‘Fraid I didn’t catch yours.”

The panic he’d felt upon first seeing the Qunari was gone. Yet some fears were deep-rooted. Parents in Tevinter still coerced their brats into behaving with scare tactics: _If you’re bad, the Qunari will come and take you away and bury your bones in Par Vollen._ It was bullshit of course, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still leery of the monstrous, horned man, even if he was acting perfectly _nice._

He didn’t lie, though. “Name’s Cremisius Aclassi. Lieutenant of the Imperial Army, Fifth Regiment, stationed in Trevis.”

“Cremisius Aclassi,” Bull said slowly, as if testing the taste of it. “Most ‘Vint-sounding name ever.” Pausing, he cocked his head at the soldier. “A man’s name.”

 _Here we go again,_ he thought. _The part where I have to explain and he won’t fucking get it._ “Yeah.”

Bull looked at him silently for another moment. Aclassi waited for the expected argument, and was surprised when it didn’t come. “Yeah,” Bull finally said. “All right.” He then stood up, kicking the chair back. “I doubt anyone looking for you is going to find you here,” he said. “This place is shit, but at least you should be safe. So you can stay here until you’re healed.”

Aclassi, somewhat perplexed, watched in silence as Bull headed towards the door. But the questions in his mind demanded answers. “Hey. Wait.”

Bull stopped and turned, looking at him quizzically.

“It wasn’t your fight. You didn’t have to get involved,” the soldier said. “So why did you?”

Bull scrutinized him with his one good eye as he adjusted the eye patch over the other. “Mostly ‘cause I hate to see an unfair fight,” he admitted. “Five against one – ain’t nothing fair about that.” He paused, and a smile twitched across his lips. “Or maybe I just like rooting for the little guy.”

The soldier cocked an eyebrow. “I’d guess that everyone seems little to you.”

Bull laughed – a soft, but throaty chuckle that was ocean-floor deep. “Fair point,” he conceded. “Now – get some rest, kid.”

\--------------------------

Cremisius Aclassi remained in bed for another week.

The man named Stitches took care of his wounds and gave him remedies to manage the pain. An elven woman with very fair hair and shockingly green tattoos on her face brought him his meals, so he was fed, though the unappetizing fare didn’t make him well-fed. The elven woman spoke too much. Unlike the blond man who came to bring the soldier some clean clothes to wear. He didn’t say anything at all, beyond a grunt when Aclassi asked him a question. That was better. And every now and then, the Iron Bull came to check on him.

It was Bull who had asked the blond man – Grim – to pick up some “used threads” at the market.

“They should fit you,” Bull said. “If not, let me know and we’ll find you something else.”

“Yeah, sure,” the soldier agreed. For some reason he couldn’t bring himself to actually thank the Qunari. Even though just looking at the monster of a man’s face – with its raw wounds and that patch over his eye – was a constant reminder of what the man had sacrificed to save him.

Strangely, though, he suspected that the Qunari didn’t want his thanks. Words – to men who lived and died by the blade – those were cheap as streetwalkers in the elven slums of Minrathous.

Or – at least that’s what the soldier had been told. He’d never personally solicited a whore before. Given the way he felt about his body – anything to do with sex had always been problematic, and best avoided.

Upon leaving, Bull had closed the door. Alone in the room, the soldier stared at the innocuous pile of fabric. In the tavern fight, his old clothes had been destroyed beyond repair. Early on, they’d brought him a threadbare and shapeless sleeping tunic, so at least he wasn’t naked anymore. But apparently they’d decided it was time for him to get dressed and move on.

He didn’t relish the idea. Stitches had dosed him earlier with painkillers, but he was not yet entirely healed. Most of all his ribs on his left side had taken a bruising, making any sort of movement an almost agonizing affair. Steeling his courage, he threw back the covers and eased himself to the edge of the bed.

Sharp sparks of pain knifed through his body. Grunting, he tried to breathe his way through it. Eventually, the stabbing sensation receded and he reached for the garments.

In the pile he found an unbleached linen shirt that laced up the front. Breeches of a heavy brown material that resembled suede. Men’s clothes.

There were also undergarments. Men’s small clothes, but also a brassiere, also both of unbleached linen.

No, not a brassiere. Rather, it was a band – the kind that women warriors often wore. The sort of garment meant to flatten – rather than enhance – the wearer’s breasts.

His father was been a tailor, so when Aclassi was young, his father had taught him how to sew. Not traditional needlework that women usually did such as embroidery, but how to actually pattern garments and stitch them together. With these skills, he’d been able to sew together a special undershirt to effectively bind his breasts, keeping them well hidden even under a regular shirt if it were loose enough. He would have to fashion himself a new one, but for now the breast band would have to suffice.

Dressing himself took time and effort, but eventually he was dressed, sword strapped on, and on his own two feet for the first time in a week.

Standing, he felt better. He thanked the Maker for small mercies.

Opening the door, he found himself in another room. In it was an unlit hearth, some cupboards, and a wooden counter with a sink. In the center of the room, around a small table, sat the healer, the Dalish elf, Bull and Grim, who all turned to watch him enter.

“There’s coffee if you want it,” Stitches said as he slid a freshly-poured cup across the table. “Should be fine for you to drink it.”

The soldier stepped forward and picked up the offered cup. “Thanks,” he murmured before he took a long sip. It tasted like watered-down dirt mixed with ashes, but it was hot and his parents hadn’t raised him in a barn so he drank it anyway.

Bull spent a long moment studying the weapon hooked through Aclassi’s belt. When the soldier cocked an eyebrow at him, the Qunari spoke. “Hey, kid – you any good with that sword?”

Aclassi slowly lowered the cup in his hand. In the Qunari’s voice, there was a challenge. It was the sort of question he got asked by other tough guys who liked swords a bit too much all the time. So he knew precisely how to handle it.

He stared Bull dead on in the eye. “Yeah.”

Bull stared right back, then issued his real challenge. “Prove it.”

Aclassi knew he was in no shape to fight. Also, in the tavern, he’d seen the Qunari _take down_ five armed Imperium soldiers. The same five men who had almost killed _him._ There was no way he could go up against the Qunari and win.

He squashed the desire to man up to the challenge. Manly posturing – it was something he was good at, but only up to a point.

“Ain’t gonna prove shit,” he said. “I saw what you did to those men in the tavern. With these injuries, I don’t see how I could fight you and not get killed.”

Bull eyed him for another long moment. “You’re right about that,” he finally said. “Some men don’t know when to back down, even when they’re clearly outmatched.”

The soldier raised his eyebrow again.

“I could use a man like you,” Bull continued, rubbing thoughtfully at his jaw. “Want a job?”

 _A man._ Aclassi stared at him, almost dumbstruck. “A job?”

“Yeah. I’m starting up an operation of mercenaries. We’ll do odd jobs – as long as they pay well. Nothing too dirty, though. I want to keep this legit.”

Aclassi considered that. _Work for a Qunari?_ Just the thought of seemed absurd. And yet...

“You serious?” he asked, skepticism coloring his tone. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know that you can use a sword and that you’re not a damn fool. So. How ‘bout it? You’ll get to travel, and the pay will be good. There may even be adventure.”

Still, he hesitated. “You don’t even know why those men were after me.”

Bull shrugged. “Don’t care about your past. You got something you want to leave behind, that’s your business. No one here is gonna judge you for what you did. They’re only gonna judge you for what you _do.”_

The soldier considered Bull’s offer. He’d wanted to see the world, hadn’t he? Maybe this was his chance. “If I join you, I’ll want to keep the same rank. Lieutenant.”

Bull snorted a soft laugh. “Yeah. Titles ain’t my thing, but if it makes you happy... Lieutenant of the Chargers.”

 _Bull’s Chargers.... clever._ “How many men you got in this operation?”

Bull tipped his head towards the table. “You’re looking at it,” he said. At Aclassi’s expression of dismay, he chuckled again. “Like I said, it’s still pretty new.”

His gaze scanned the table. Grim had the look of a seasoned warrior about him. The Dalish girl’s bow had a crystal on top, so she was obviously a mage. Then there was Stitches. Including him and Bull, the group was currently composed of three swords, one mage and one healer.

Actually, that wasn’t a bad start.

“Oh,” Bull added. “There is one condition.”

Aclassi narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What is it?”

“That ‘Vint-sounding name of yours. I don’t like it. Plus it would be a bitch if I had to yell it out in the middle of battle. So we’ll need to call you something else. Something snappy.” Bull thought for a moment. “From now on, I’m just calling you Krem.”

“Krem, eh?” the soldier repeated, then broke out in a grin. “Whatever you say, Chief.”

 


	2. Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Warning for gender dysphoria._

The breeze blew Krem’s hair into his eyes as he lay on his stomach on the top of the crest just outside the village of Millburn. Reaching up, he brushed it back, just as Bull, lying in a similar position next to him, passed him the spyglass.

“This is it,” Bull murmured. “They’re on the move.”

Krem fixed the spyglass to right eye, squeezing shut the left, and followed Bull’s indicating finger to the clump of dark figures moving through the valley below. Now that the bandits had broken camp, he was able to better assess their number.

_Shit._

Lowering the glass, he shot his boss a skeptical look. “Chief. You realize that there’s at least fifty of ‘em.”

Bull snorted a soft laugh. “Yeah. And there’s seven of us. That’s only... seven each.”

“Yeah, Chief. Seven hardened criminals wearing chain mail armor, and all of ‘em armed with swords, bows, and knives for each of us,” Krem pointed out. “Can’t see what could possibly go wrong.”

Bull grinned. “Think of it as a challenge, Krem.”

Krem was about to point out how the Qunari was inappropriately happy given the situation when a soft voice rose up from his other side. “I’d be happy to kill seven or more _shems.”_

Krem glanced at the owner of the voice: Skinner, the newest recruit, a city elf they’d picked up in Val Royeaux. Dark-haired, lithe and pretty, she was also nearly as bloodthirsty as their fearless leader.

“Now that’s the spirit,” Bull rumbled.

“Chief...”

Before Krem could finish his sentence, his words were drowned out by a loud _BOOM,_ accompanied by a bright flash in the valley below. Even without the spyglass, Krem could see the resulting damage. Dirt, rocks, grass and several bodies dressed in black were hurled into the air from the force of the explosion. He couldn’t tell how much damage had been done. Not until he had the spyglass pressed firmly against his brow bone again and the dust finally settled.

He did a quick count of the bodies on the ground – dead, or close enough. “Ten men down, Chief.”

“Good job, Rocky,” Bull muttered approvingly.

“No problem,” replied the dwarf.

Rocky was the other new recruit. The sapper had been kicked out of Orzammar due to his penchant for blowing shit up. Krem had already decided that he liked the strange, little man. At least more than he liked Skinner – she always seemed a little resentful at having to follow a human’s orders, and more than once he’d caught her eyeing his throat as if she were considering slitting it in his sleep.

Not really the _best_ way to begin a relationship.

Bull was already moving – hands big as bucklers pressed to the stony ground, pushing himself up. “Now it’s only six each, Krem,” he said, serious as steel. “Chargers – to battle!”

At the order, Krem and the others hastened to obey. Krem was already tucking the spyglass safely away in a pouch at his belt before he was even on his feet, drawing his sword as they scrambled down the rocky slope towards the bandits.

Bull led the charge, with Krem close behind him.

Dust billowed out from their boot heels as they skidded down the remaining part of the slope into the battlefield. Instantly in the fray, Krem slashed at the nearest bandit, while at his back, Bull brought his battle axe down into the helmet of another.

Another explosion pelted dirt up into their faces. All around him was the din of battle – hoarse shouts, the clang of steel, the whizzing of arrows – mixed in with the scents of ozone from magical spells, dust, and fresh blood. Leaping forward, Krem took another swing at his opponent, this time knocking the man down to the ground, where he remained still. Whirling, he faced his next foe.

“Five!” Bull boomed out from close by. “How many have you killed, Krem?”

Krem cursed under his breath. He’d only vanquished two bandits so far – shit, he hated it when Bull got ahead of him. Unless Krem matched him, the big lout would gloat about it for _days_. Sidestepping his enemy’s thrust, Krem whirled about, then shoved his own blade up in through the chinks in the man’s armor.

“Quit your bragging, Chief!” Krem shouted back. “The fight ain’t over yet!”

Closer this time, Krem heard the sizzle of one of Ricky’s grenades before it blew. Again, upturned earth scattered through the air, along with stray limbs and a spray of blood. Cursing again, Krem quickly wiped the blood from his face with one hand, then raised his arm to parry the sword swing aimed straight for his head.

_Fucking clumsy,_ Krem berated himself as the blow sent him staggering down to the ground. _Get up and fight, Aclassi!_

Taunting him with a slur, the bandit leaped forward, ready to deal the death blow.

His shield had fallen several paces away, out of reach. His legs were refusing to move fast enough. He could try to deflect the blow with his sword, but even so it was going to put Krem in a world of hurt.

Weapon raised, he braced himself for the worst.

Except the worst never happened. Instead, his attacker suddenly stopped in his trajectory. For a moment he froze in mid-swing, his wide eyes visible through the slit in his helmet. Then, as if he were merely a stack of building blocks, he crumpled, landing face first in the dirt, not moving.

The newest recruit – Skinner – stood behind him, holding two bloodied daggers in her hands.

She’d saved his skin. But there was little time for gratitude. He gave her a quick nod of acknowledgment, then she ran back off into the thick of the battle. Staggering to his own feet, Krem then scooped up his shield and followed her.

Shouting a battle cry, he helped Grim take down a pair of bandits who had ganged up on him.

And then, as quickly as the battle had begun, it was over.

For a moment they all stood, spattered with dirt and mud – except for Dalish – as Bull scanned the corpse-covered field with his eye. Satisfied with the results, he then sheathed his weapon, letting out a hearty laugh. “Good work, men!” he praised them. “Now – let’s go see the grateful villagers we just saved about our well-deserved reward.”

They trekked off towards the village.

Bull was right about two things, it turned out. The seven of them had most certainly had saved the village, and the inhabitants were very grateful indeed. The reward, however?

Ten sacks of rice.

“Chief,” Krem mumbled under his breath. “About your negotiating skills? I think we need to have a little talk.”

Bull rubbed a hand thoughtfully across his big jaw. “Yeah,” the Qunari said slowly. “You might have a point, Krem.”

As it turned out, the villagers had no gold. The only thing they had in abundance was the rice. So what could they do?

It was the last time Bull would ever take a job without insisting on payment up front.

Unwilling to leave empty handed, Bull insisted that every Charger carry at least one, or in the warriors’ case, two sacks. Ignoring everyone’s grumbles as they trudged up the path that lead out of the village, Bull just whistled a tune, until they were finally out of earshot.

“Asshole villagers,” he muttered. “Well, I just hope you all like rice pudding.”

\--------------------------

It didn’t matter how big a spider was – it was still gross when he squashed it.

Krem had been with the Chargers for nearly a year now. Before Hunter Fell, the ex-soldier never would have believed it if someone had told him he’d end up not only working for a Qunari, but also having respect for him. Yet here they were. And, since their humble beginnings, the band of mercenaries had grown into an army. Still, when Bull himself was leading, he always brought along what he called his core group, the ones who had been there practically since the beginning: Krem, Skinner, Stitches, Grim, Rocky and Dalish. Krem approved of this. They were tighter than a grandmother’s knit sweater, and now worked in unison like a well-oiled machine from Orzammar.

Bull wasn’t one to sit idle. The less interesting jobs he would leave to the other men under his charge, while taking on the most risky or most interesting ones himself. Which is how Cremissius Aclassi had already fulfilled his desire to see the world.

And also how he had ended up with the Chargers in Nevarra, clearing a nest of giant spiders off some nobleman’s winter estate.

From the fray, Bull’s voice rang out. “Twelve!”

Krem danced forward, easily lopping the head off another arachnid, grinning as he shouted teasingly back. “Baby spiders don’t count, Chief!”

Bull didn’t even break stride, his battle ax sending a fountain of spider guts up into the air. “Just try keeping up this time, Krem!”

Close by, he heard Skinner curse as she wiped spider goo off her face. “So disgusting.”

From a safer distance, Dalish piped up. “That’s what you get for not using a bow! Knives have no range, Skinner!”

Under her breath, Skinner muttered. “Bow, my ass.”

“Rocky!” Bull commanded. “Get off your ass and do something about that nest!”

“Sure thing, boss,” Rocky said. He darted in towards the grotto that was spilling spiders the way a firework spilled sparks, then lobbed a grenade. “Fire in the hole!”

Everyone ducked.

BOOM!

The nest destroyed, they were able to take out the remaining stragglers with ease. Krem killed two more, then silently cursed himself as Bull boomed out “Twenty!” because – _Fried shit on a stick_ – he’d lost count.

He was trying to shake the ichor off his sword when Bull ambled up to him, his massive ax slung casually over one of his broad shoulders. “Now what, Chief?”

Bull thoughtfully studied the mansion for a moment. Ostentatious to the hilt, it dripped with the sort of wealth that Krem could never have even imagined. His own childhood home could have fit into it at least twenty times. Even the magisters in Minrathous hadn’t lived in houses this big – though that may have had more to do with lack of space in the city rather than the lack of desire to show off.

Horns dipped as he turned back to Krem. “Seems to me that with this being the winter estate, and this being summer, won’t be nobody here to mind if we all went in and made ourselves at home,” Bull observed. “In fact, I’d wager that nobody would mind if we raided the liquor cabinet and celebrated a job well done.”

The Chargers whooped their approval of Bull’s plan.

Less than fifteen minutes later, the Chargers had found the estate’s extensive wine cellar, including a fine cask of Antivan rum. Which they appropriated immediately.

Less than an hour later, they were sprawled out in an opulent sitting room – candelabras, a crystal chandelier, thick rugs and precious objects everywhere, cushy chairs – while Rocky grilled skewers of sausages in the fireplace for them. They’d cracked open the cask, and had found some fancy silver-hammered goblets, and the more they drank, the more they laughed and sang battle songs. Well, except for Grim, who just drank.

Sunk deep into his own chair, Krem was already light-headed from the strong rum. Lifting a clumsy hand to smooth back his hair, he nearly smacked himself in the face.

A low rumble buzzed near his left ear. “You doing all right, Krem de la Krem?”

Krem glanced over. Bull’s hands dwarfed his goblet, making it look like it had come from a child’s dollhouse. He wore a casual smile, but, in his eye was a hint of concern. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Krem said, not particularly caring that he was slurring a bit. Standing up, he stretched. “Think I’ll go get some fresh air, though. Clear my head.”

To that, Bull just nodded in acknowledgment.

Out the door, Krem wandered through the massive corridors, boot heels clicking on the marble floor. As he walked aimlessly, he looked at the paintings and tapestries that lined both walls. The paintings were mostly of people he didn’t know, and thus were of little interest, though most of the tapestries depicted hunting scenes, which he kind of liked.

Eventually he came to a mirror. Large, in an ornate, gilt-edged frame.

Cremisius Aclassi had a long and complicated relationship with mirrors. His earliest memory was of his father’s shaving glass, and how he’d mimicked his father, pretending to shave. It was one of his better childhood memories. For a few more years after that, his relationship with mirrors had remained innocuous. Only once his willowy child’s body had begun to change, budding breasts and blossoming hips, did he start to hate looking at himself in the mirror. And, in turn, to hate himself.

What he saw when he looked in a mirror: despite the hard-earned muscle, he was too soft in places. Hips too wide. Jawline too weak. Hands too small. Shoulders too narrow. Not tall enough and voice not deep enough, even though he’d learned how to speak from his chest, the way men did.

For a long time, Krem forced himself to confront his reflection, hating himself. So lost in self-loathing, he didn’t hear the sounds of footfalls until Bull appeared behind him. For a large guy, he could move quite silently. Quickly he averted his gaze. But it was too late – Bull had caught him staring moodily into the mirror.

Thoughtful, Bull locked gazes with Krem in the glass. “Krem,” he said. “What do you see in there?”

Normally, Krem would have cracked a joke. But the fatigue from the fight and the copious amount of rum he’d drunk had worn down his defenses.

_A woman._ That was his first unkind thought. But that wasn’t entirely accurate. “I see the wrong fucking body.”

Thoughtful again, Bull was silent for a spell. Then, shifting, he crossed his arms over his chest, as if in challenge. “You know what I see?” he asked.

“What, Chief?”

“I see a man,” Bull said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “That’s the way I see it, you’re a man. So your body is a man’s body. You could slap on some rouge and run out to battle wearing a dozen purple tutus, and you’d still be a man. A man’s what you feel on the inside. The outside – that don’t matter so much.”

Krem mulled over this. He’d been around men long enough to know how they measured their manhood – in a way that often wasn’t just figurative. “Try walking around your whole life without all the right parts.”

Bull gave an indifferent shrug. “You know, there’s more to being a man than having a dick,” he said. “Though – did I ever tell you about the sex workers in Par Vollen?” When Krem shook his head, Bull continued. “Yeah. They got this thing called the _saartoh nehrappan._ It’s a leather-wrapped rod on a harness.” As Krem’s eyes widened, Bull grinned. “If you think it’d make you feel more manly, you could always try it.”

Krem barked a laugh. “You’re a big damn pervert,” he muttered to Bull’s reflection in the mirror. But, when he looked back at his own reflection, he found that he didn’t quite hate himself as much anymore.

\------------------------

A cold wind was blowing northward, up from the Waking Sea, twisting and turning through the dark, cobbled streets of Val Royeaux. Cutting quickly through the now deserted Belle Marché, the band of mercenaries turned towards the wealthy section of the city.

None of the Chargers were overtly enthusiastic about the job in Orlais. In particular, Skinner, though not for the obvious distaste she held for her birthplace, but because they’d been told that there would be no killing of anyone, including _shems._

And their target was just the type of shem that Skinner would have enjoyed having on the receiving end of her knives: a rich noble named Gaston du Chatabrieu that the Iron Bull referred to simply as “The Duke.”

Other than that, what Krem knew about the Duke could have fit into a thimble. According to Bull, the Duke was an asshole who’d trafficked in the eleven slave trade with Tevinter, and who was also a deeply suspicious man, whose death – according to an Orlesian mage well-known for her prophesies – would come on feathered wings.

Which explained why the Chargers were now slipping through the streets on route to the target’s mansion, plastered in feathers.

And not only plastered in feathers. Between Stitches and Rocky, the two of them had come up with a set of wings for each of the Chargers, ingenious strapped-on contraptions that actually moved, seeming to flap whenever they flexed their backs. They’d used different colored feathers for each – Grim’s pigeon gray, Skinner’s shimmering peacock blue, Dalish’s exotic parrot green, and so on – but Krem’s were raven black.

_I’ll need you up front,_ Bull had told him in an aside just before leaving their current hideout – a small hotel in a less prosperous part of the city, near the alienage. _Sure, the women look pretty, but nothin’ about peacocks or parrots says “death.”_

Rounding a corner, Bull held up a hand, signaling for them to stop. Hiding among the hedges, Krem looked up at their destination: the Duke’s mansion. Tall and narrow, by the light of the lamps it shone pretty as a confection, like a cake with canary yellow frosting with decorative piping in white.

According to Bull’s intel, the Duke would be attending a soiree this evening. As if in confirmation, a carriage and driver waited at the bottom of the steps in the street.

“Any minute now,” Bull said in a low voice. “Get ready.”

By habit, Krem lifted a hand to rest it upon the hilt of his sword, then silently cursed himself when he remembered that it wasn’t there. Like all their weapons, Krem’s sword and shield were stored safely away back at the hideout.

As they waited, watching, the door to the mansion finally opened, and a man in a golden mask stepped out. A servant closed the door behind him, then he started walking down the stairs, the tip of his cane clicking on every step as he made his descent.

The Duke was nearly at the carriage when Bull gave his order to move.

The Chargers surged forward toward the Duke, screeching and flapping their wings. Upon seeing them, the eyes behind the mask widened in abject terror. Stumbling back, the Duke seized at his own heart as his cane slipped from his grasp, clattering three times as it tumbled down the stairs.

“Ahh!” he screamed. “Mercy!”

Krem emitted one more caw, and then Bull gestured for them to retreat. The fell back from whence they’d come, around the corner and disappearing behind the hedges before hurrying back through the side streets. Slowing, but still moving quickly, they made their way across Val Royeaux until they’d reached their hotel.

In the window, Krem caught a glance of himself: a man. A man all decked out in feathers.

He looked utterly ridiculous. All of them did.

Back in one of their rooms, Bull gave them all a look of approval. “Good job, men,” he said. “Our mission was to scare the Duke. Judging by the way he reacted, I’d say he shit his pants.”

Krem crossed his arms over his chest, causing his black feathered wings to flutter, bird-like. “Chief,” he said, mustering all the patience he could, “are you fucking kidding me?”

Bull’s head swiveled, his eye fixed on Krem. When he spoke, his voice had that low, cold tone he only used when someone was about to get their head handed to them on a plate – sometimes literally. “You got a problem, Krem?”

Krem hadn’t initially joined the Chargers to do jobs like this. “Yeah,” Krem said. “You ask me? Shit like this is a waste of our time and talents. Chargers got the best reputation of any merc company in the south. Seems to me we’re only going to ruin it by dressing up in feathers to scare some dumbass noble’s rival.”

Bull paused. No doubt thinking about whether or not he was going to allow Krem to get away with questioning his decisions in front of the others. “Damn right we do,” he said, though his tone was still far from mild. “You got something in mind?”

“Yeah, Chief. Let’s join the Inquisition,” Krem said, then added, “Good fights for a good cause!”

Bull paused again. Of course they’d heard all about the Inquisition. Lately, it was all that everyone in Thedas seemed to be talking about. “I don’t know, Krem,” Bull said finally. “I hear there are demons.”

I Krem knew that nothing frightened the Qunari – except demons. Yet he could tell that Bull was seriously considering it. “Ah, don’t worry about the demons, Chief!” he said with all the sincerity he could muster, blissfully unaware of how wrong he would be. “I’m sure we won’t see many!”

 


	3. Stink-Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krem does not approve of Bull's new lover in the Inquisition. Dorian hatches a plan.

The first time that Cremissius Aclassi met the Inquisitor was outside the Chantry in Haven.

At first, he hadn’t even realized that it _was_ the Inquisitor. He’d come to Haven in order to deliver his message of Bull’s offer, along with an invitation to come watch the Chargers take care of some Tevinter mercenaries out at the Storm Coast, but he’d had a hard time getting anyone to talk to him. When the waif-like elf in nondescript mage robes had stopped to inquire about his business, Krem had figured, at that point, that one pointy ear was as good as any other. Not until the elf had shown up at the Storm Coast with his entourage did Krem realize that he’d found the most powerful ear in the Inquisition.

Back at Haven, the Inquisitor chatted with Krem a few times. Always asking questions, usually about Bull and the Chargers. Mostly one-sided, as well, so what Krem knew about Mahanon Lavellan came mostly from second-hand information he’d gleaned from Bull.

But by the time they’d reached Skyhold, Krem had his own opinions about the Herald of Andraste.

Back in Tevinter, Krem hadn’t had much opportunity to fraternize with elves. Most of them were slaves, and his family had never owned one. Only once he was out of Tevinter did he start making friends with elves and begin formulating opinions about them.

Elves were a strange folk – the Dalish in particular. Krem didn’t try to pretend that he understood everything about their culture, though he’d learned quite a bit about it from the Charger Bull just called “Dalish.” Not that Tevinter culture was inherently better – because in Krem’s opinion it wasn’t – but all the elves he’d met were, to put it bluntly, weird. Not unlikable, just different.

Being Dalish, Mahanon Lavellan also had that particular odd quirkiness. Krem didn’t dislike the Inquisitor – the man made an effort to be a good leader, looking at the big picture, carefully considering all the options, attempting to minimize casualties, and personally getting to know his men whenever time permitted. Also, the Inquisitor seemed genuinely nice, though he also possessed a dorky awkwardness, reminding Krem of the sort of pasty-faced boy that, back in his neighborhood in Minrathous, would have gotten beaten up for his pocket money on a regular basis. Finally, he was outspoken about Dalish rights, understandably nervous about the Chantry, and always trying to unravel the mysteries of human culture.

They had been in Skyhold for a few weeks when the Inquisitor posed his first question regarding human courtship to Krem.

Like most of the Chargers, Krem spent the majority of his down time in the Herald’s Rest. Whenever the Inquisitor came to the tavern, he would invariably stop to check in with Krem. Usually Krem would tell the Inquisitor some story or other about some of his adventures with the Chargers. In particular, the Herald had seemed to enjoy the tale about the time they’d hunted a giant. Except on this day, seemingly out of the blue, he posed a different question.

Like most elves, he wasn’t particularly tall, and he had the traditional _vallaslin_ markings, his features typically somewhat androgynous. Lifting a slim hand to brush back a lock of dark hair from his pale face, he pursed his lips. “Krem? Tell me about love.”

Taken aback, Krem stared at him. Love was problematic, so Krem had spent a long time avoiding entanglements. He was twenty-seven years old, had seen the world, and had found his higher purpose by serving the Inquisition. _Love? Whatever._ He didn’t need it.

The Inquisitor looked at him, expectant.

Krem searched for and finally found his tongue. “Love? Uh, yeah. I think you’re going to need to be more specific than that, Your Worship.”

“Oh!” he said, stumbling over his words a little. For a small, skinny guy, his voice was uncommonly deep. “I just... I mean, you know Bull, and... I don’t know if I should even being asking you this, but... well, I overheard something.”

 _If it has to do with Bull, then it ain’t love._ Krem didn’t say this, though. “Go ahead and spit it out, Your Worship,” he said. “What did you hear?”

“Well,” Lavellan began. “While we were out in the Emerald Graves, Bull and Dorian were talking, and I heard Dorian say to Bull that if he chose to leave his door unlocked, then Dorian might or might not come.”

All of Krem’s thoughts became slow and thick as syrup as he tried to understand the implications of what the Inquisitor had just said. _No. Can’t be._ “Your Worship? Was there anything else to the conversation?”

“That’s the thing. Apparently Dorian had already been to Bull’s room and had forgotten his ‘silky underthings.’” Lavellan said, perplexed. “I mean, if Dorian has already been to Bull’s room before, then why would he say that?”

 _Dorian? With the Chief?_ This was the first that Krem had heard about it. Which was odd, because discretion in his affairs wasn’t usually Bull’s thing. “Not sure,” Krem muttered. “But if you ask me, it sounds like Dorian is playing hard to get.”

A small furrow appeared in Lavellan’s brow. “Playing hard to get?” he echoed. “I assume that’s a human custom. What does it mean?”

As Krem did his best to explain what that meant, he felt his stomach twisting deep inside him. After that, the Inquisitor thanked him, then excused himself before scampering away to go see Cullen about some Inquisition business. As Krem, watched him go, he had one thought.

_The boss and I are going to have a long talk about a certain mage from Tevinter._

\---------------------------------------

Bull had offered himself as a personal bodyguard to the Inquisitor. Instead of using the Qunari as a shield, Lavellan had conscripted him into the elusive inner circle. Which meant that Bull was often away from Skyhold, traveling with some of the other members on behalf of the Inquisition. Still, Bull had a fair amount of down time in Skyhold. On those nights, he could usually be found drinking in the tavern with some of his men.

On this night, Krem found him in the usual place on the first floor, drinking with Skinner, Grim, and two of the newer recruits to the company that they’d picked up in Nevarra.

“Hey, Krem brulé,” Bull said with a grin as he waved Krem over. “Come join us for a drink.” As Krem sat down, Bull reintroduced him to the recruits. If this had been a real army, they would have been privates. As it was, they were still under Krem’s command, and offered him a fair showing of deference.

Unlike Skinner, who merely nodded in greeting, and Grim, who grunted.

Bull seemed to be in an amiable mood. “I was just telling the boys about the time we took on those bandits in Ferelden – the Gattler’s Giants,” he informed Krem.

“Yeah,” the Charger said as he settled down in the chair while Bull flagged down the red-haired serving girl. “The guys who wore a dragon’s weight in armor.”

“Those would be the ones.” Bull turned to the serving girl who had just approached them, then indicated Krem with his thumb. “Another glass for my man Krem here.”

The girl put a hand on her hip, giving Krem a saucy wink. “Qunari got your tongue, Lieutenant?” she teased.

As Krem raised an eyebrow, Bull let out a guffaw, then gave the girl a playful swat on the ass, sending her back to the bar, her laughter trailing behind her like sleigh bells.

 _That_ wasn’t surprising. The boss always did have a thing for redheads.

“So I challenged the leader,” Bull continued to the others. “Single combat. Asshole had his pride, you see, so he wasn’t going to turn it down, even if he was half my size. Even told his men that he’d ‘be right back.’ Of course he didn’t know what was coming to him...”

Krem half-listened as Bull finished the tale of how he hadn’t even bothered to fight the leader. Instead he’d simply led the man down to the river. Unbeknownst to the Gattler’s Giants, however, was that Bull had already installed Rocky and some of his prime explosives upstream at the dam. At the right moment, the dam blew, flooding the valley. While the armored men sank to the bottom and drowned, the Chargers had simply swum away.

As Bull launched into another tale, Krem settled deeper down into his chair, alternating between nursing his tankard and chewing on his bottom lip, thinking about Dorian Pavus.

Generally, Krem didn’t care much about whatever man – or woman – Bull brought to his bed, or what they did there. However, when Dorian Pavus had shown up in Haven, Krem had taken an immediate dislike to him. Son of a magister – the same class of people who’d looked down on him and his family his whole life. The same people who had ruined his family and who now owned his father as a slave. Not that all magisters were terrible, but, for Krem, Dorian represented the worst of the Tevinter elite: rich, pampered, and arrogant as all fuck. Krem didn’t trust him, and he sure as shit didn’t like the way he’d started sniffing around the boss early on like a bitch in heat.

 _That_ Krem had been able to ignore. All massive muscle, Bull was the paragon of manly strength, so Krem understood the fascination Bull held for certain people. Plus, for someone like Dorian, a Tevinter, there was also the appeal of forbidden fruit. But, after talking to the Inquisitor, it was clear that Dorian had moved beyond mere fascination to the actual _tasting._

Krem was contemplating about how to best broach the subject when the door of the tavern opened and the mage himself stepped in. Closing the door with a flamboyant wave of his hand, Dorian then made his way across the room, where he took a seat not too far from them at the bar.

Glancing at Bull, Krem realized that Bull’s gaze was on Dorian. Another glance revealed that Dorian had either not yet noticed the attention, or was ignoring them.

Still, it was a good opportunity. Nudging Bull, Krem tilted his head in the direction of the bar. “What’s up with you and the mage, Chief?”

Bull looked at Krem, his expression guarded. Assessing. For a moment Krem suspected that Bull might deny any involvement, but then the Qunari just shrugged. “Dorian’s a nice guy, once you get past all the bluster. Sweet.”

Confirmation obtained, Krem just grunted.

Bull considered Krem for another moment, then flashed him a teasing grin. “Don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, Krem. But sex? It’s considered healthy. Good for relieving tension. You might want to consider trying it some time.”

Krem didn’t blush, but he felt a slight flush of heat rise to his cheeks. Scoffing, he just muttered, “Not all of us are slaves to our libidos, Chief.”

Bull chuckled. “It ain’t slavery if you’re willing to wear the chains.”

Krem raised an eyebrow. “If you mean that literally, Chief, then we’re ending this conversation right here.”

Bull laughed again. Then his gaze flicked back to the bar briefly before returning to Krem. “I take it you’d have no objections if Dorian joined us for a drink.”

It wasn’t a question. Krem shrugged.

Bull raised his hand and gestured at Dorian to join them.

\---------------------------------------

_What is going on between you and the Iron Bull, exactly?_

Standing in the library, that had been the question the Inquisitor had posed to him. Dorian’s first reaction, his first thought, had been to deny the entire affair. Except that the Inquisitor had been blinking up at him so innocently with those big gray eyes of his, he found that he couldn’t be cruel.

Dorian had sighed. _If only there were a single discreet bone in that lummox,_ he muttered. _Err… do you truly want to know? Is this official concern, or…?_

A hand fell, light as feathers, upon his sleeve. _I’m asking as your friend._

Taken aback, for a moment Dorian was uncharacteristically speechless. Friends were not something he’d had in abundance since he’d left Tevinter, and most definitely not since he’d joined the Inquisition. Even now, on every stroll through Skyhold, he was treated to a series of distrustful stares. Once, the blacksmith had even spat at the ground at Dorian’s feet when he’d passed by. Yes, he’d become _friendly_ with some of the others in the inner circle, but he didn’t have _friends._

And yet... once the letter from Tevinter had arrived, the Inquisitor had insisted that he accompany Dorian to Redcliff to deal with the matter. Stood by him, even, when he’d confronted his father. And had listened to Dorian with sympathy after the entire disaster was over. If those weren’t the actions of a friend, Dorian didn’t know what was.

 _Friends with the Inquisitor?_ Dorian thought. _Well, why not?_

After he’d confessed not knowing what, exactly, was going on with his relationship with Bull, Lavellan had simply nodded, wearing that serious little expression of his he’d usually have any time his advisers reported new problems over the War Table. Then he’d made his excuses and scampered back down the stairs.

Dorian had watched the slim elf slip off before he’d turned back to the books on the shelves. He’d been looking for a specific treatise on Nevarran death magic that he was sure he’d seen before, a jewel of a tome he’d unearthed in this literary wasteland. Except that his mind kept returning to the conversation he’d just had, and to Bull.

Despite Bull’s open invitation, Dorian had not yet gone back to visit him in his room. If he were to go tonight, would the door still be unlocked? Did he _want_ it to be unlocked? He considered that for a moment.

 _It’s just an itch,_ he told himself. _A normal itch. One that he could scratch._

Decided, he reached for his cloak. Considered the hour, which was still early. Then he made his way to the Herald’s Rest.

Once inside the tavern, he headed straight for the bar to order a glass of the best wine they had. Sipping it, he then scanned the tavern. It was a popular hour for drinking, so most of the tables were filled with Cullen’s men, most of them gaming with dice or cards, or just listening to the bard Maryden who stood not far from the bar, singing one of her newer songs about the Inquisition. In the corner – and it was impossible to miss those horns – the Iron Bull sat with some of his own men.

Bull met his gaze. He said something to his lieutenant, then gestured at Dorian to join them.

Not wanting to seem to eager, Dorian paused for a moment. Then he slipped slowly down from his bar stool. Sweeping his cloak back over his shoulder with one hand, he picked up his glass with the other before approaching the Chargers.

Bull patted the empty chair between him and the red-haired man. Casually, Dorian sat down, keenly aware but ignoring the odd stares of the Chargers. Was that a knowing glint in the Qunari’s eye? Fortunately, Bull didn’t embarrass him by saying something lascivious, instead opting to introduce him to his men before returning to the story he’d been in the middle of telling.

 _Talking_ wasn’t something he and Bull had spent a lot of time doing in those nights they’d spent together, but Bull had still told him – sounding like a proud father – a little bit about the Chargers. So some of the names were familiar. Grim, Skinner, and, in particular, his lieutenant, Krem.

What Dorian knew about Krem was that his name was Cremisius Aclassi, and that he was one of Dorian’s few fellow countrymen, and that he’d once been a soldier in the Imperial Army. However, despite their common bond, they’d never actually spoken.

In reality, Dorian found battles that didn’t involve magic to be dreadfully dull. As Bull reminisced, Dorian sipped his wine and pretended to be interested. But it didn’t escape his notice that the lieutenant continued to give him a look. One that he easily recognized, having seen it on his father’s face only too recently. Disapproval, tinged with hostility.

There were certain things Dorian could ignore. Except that something about the fact that it was Bull’s right-hand man who didn’t like him rankled him. He waited until Bull got up to go “take a piss” and the others started talking among themselves. Catching Krem’s eye, Dorian lifted an eyebrow, his voice low, but his tone airy. “Is there a problem?”

Caught staring, Krem jerked. Then, his face set as if in stone, he said, “Nah. Ain’t no problem.”

Dorian cast a a quick glance at the others, who were laughing about something and clearly not listening to them. “If that is indeed the case,” Dorian pressed, “then what’s with the stink-eye?”

Krem studied him for a moment, clearly debating. Then he merely shrugged.

Shifting, Dorian crossed his legs, holding his wine glass aloft. Casually, as if he didn’t care. “Oh, because I’m an altus. Is that it?”

Krem’s mouth twitched a bit. Surely Dorian had hit a nerve. Except, if it were true, Krem didn’t admit it. “Nah.”

He wasn’t sure why he needed to know. He just did. Dorian continued to press. “Then perhaps it’s because I prefer men?”

The ex-soldier huffed out a breath. “Don’t care about that. Ain’t my business who the Chief sleeps with,” Krem muttered. Then added, as if it were merely an afterthought, “Not that it’s easy to keep track.”

 _Ugh._ If Krem had intended to wound him, Dorian had felt it, a little jab right in the chest. A feeling that he didn’t want to consider too closely, because whatever was going on with him and Bull, it didn’t involve _feelings._

Dorian frowned. Eyes slightly narrowed as he considered Krem. Was that smugness? “Are you _trying_ to antagonize me?” he asked, cool as the air in the Frostbacks. “If so, you’re going to have to try much harder.”

Once again, Krem’s lips twitched. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Krem muttered. “In case I get any time to waste.”

Before Dorian could respond to that, Bull sauntered back over. Stopping behind Dorian’s chair, he placed a hand lightly on Dorian’s shoulder, leaning down to speak near his ear. “Case you’re wondering,” Bull rumbled, “my door’s still unlocked.”

Dorian cast one more glance at Krem. Angrier than he’d been at someone other than his father for a long time. He told himself that it didn’t matter what his man thought, or what anyone thought. If everyone knew he was sleeping with Bull? _So be it._

Turning his head, Dorian focused his attention on Bull. “Then why are we waiting?” he drawled, giving Bull his sultriest smile. “I can think of nothing I’d rather do more.”

\---------------------------------------

_Twist of rope. Slick fingers slipping down the furrow of his back. Aromatic candle smoke spiraling through the air, tongue of flame flickering like his breath. Lashed wrists writhing, fingers helplessly flexing. Atmosphere dark and tense with anticipation. Anger melting, transforming into passion. Sharp sound of playful slap. Something has gotten into you tonight, he says. Shut up, Dorian says. Shut up and fuck me. Creak of bed slats as Bull positions him, molding his body like clay. All the air suddenly seems to leave the room as Bull takes him._

_You beast, he says. A sigh. A prayer._

_This. He’d needed this. Tongue bitten between teeth. Watchword trapped in throat. To be filled, to forget._

_Here it is safe. He can let go._

_Submit._

After their passion was spent, his lover’s touch was gentle. Fingers working out knots, then massaging the circulation back into his limbs. Pouring him a glass of watered-down wine to quench his thirst. Sweeping a cloth over his sweat-coated skin.

Dorian wanted to ask if Bull did this for everyone. He’d never suspected that the big lummox was even capable of being tender. He wasn’t sure if it made him want to stay, or to flee screaming into the night.

The last times he’d had sex with Bull, he’d opted to leave right after. Perhaps for this reason, on this night, Bull waited a few moments before regarding Dorian curiously as they lay next to each other, just barely touching, in Bull’s bed. “We good?” he asked.

Dorian sat up, setting aside the wine goblet he’d still been holding in one hand. During sex, he’d been too distracted, but now that they had finished, his earlier anger flared back up again. “I don’t think your lieutenant likes me.”

Bull remained where he was, sprawled across the bed, his horns nearly scraping against the stone of the wall. “He say something to offend you?”

Dorian considered that. “It wasn’t so much what he said, but the way he said it.”

Bull chuckled softly. “Krem’s a soldier. You know what soldiers are like. They ain’t that good with saying things so they sound all _pretty.”_

Dorian lifted a hand, stroking his fingers along his mustache. Thinking. “Even so... I’ve never seen anyone wound up so tight. Well, except for Cassandra, perhaps.” Still thinking, Dorian lightly tapped his lips. “I assume it’s for the same reason – lack of sex.”

Bull looked amused. “Humans do have a lot of hang-ups when it comes to sex.”

“Unlike Qunari, you mean.” Dorian considered that. “So, this lieutenant of yours. Does he prefer women? Or men?”

Bull gave a light shrug of his shoulders. “Ain’t my business, so I never asked him.”

At that Dorian snorted. “Ha! So say the man who tells everybody when he gets laid!”

Unperturbed, Bull merely said, “Ain’t shouting it off the roof of the Herald’s Rest, but I can’t see no reason to keep who I’m sleeping with a secret.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed. He considered mentioning his earlier discussion with the Inquisitor, then realized that Bull wouldn’t care. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But serving girls talk!”

Bull lifted his eyebrow. “You jealous, ‘vint?”

 _Yes._ “Me? Jealous? Of some serving girl? Of course not!”

Bull eyed Dorian for a moment in silence. Then his hand shot out. Laughing, he seized Dorian by the arm, pulling Dorian back down over him in the bed, entwining limbs with him. Ignoring Dorian’s weak protests, Bull quieted him with a deep, passionate kiss. When he pulled back, Dorian, dazed, could only blink down at him.

“Now that I think about it,” Bull rumbled. “I have seen Krem eyeing the ladies.”

 _Ladies... how typical,_ Dorian thought. Then he had another thought. One that would make Krem think more kindly of him. Or, at the very least, keep Krem out of his way so he could continue this – this whatever it was – with Bull. “If I may point out, Skyhold is full of ladies. I don’t think it would be apropos if I were to help your lieutenant out by playing matchmaker.”

Bull raised his eyebrow again. “I don’t think I could stop you if I could, but I can’t promise you that he’s gonna appreciate your help.”

Pleased with himself, Dorian smiled. “Don’t worry. I shall be the paragon of subtlety.”

Bull chuckled. “’Vint, you’re about as subtle as a high dragon on a fucking mountain of loot eating an army of giants singing _Skip to My Lou_.”

 


	4. Altus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian plays matchmaker. Badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a cameo of one of my favorite OCs :) I also might have done a self-insert. Except I'm not THAT good with a sword, and I'm probably a LOT older than Krem, ha ha. I hope you enjoy.

Thread was hard to come by in Skyhold. Especially if it was pink.

Krem’s stitches were neat and tiny, just like his father’s had been. Krem had practically worshiped the man, and whatever he did, Krem had wanted to do, too. He’d only been eight years old when his father had patterned out his first stuffed toy, which Krem had named Nuggles the Nug. The toy itself was long gone – his mother had thrown it out when Krem was _too old for childhood things_ – but Krem had managed to reconstruct the pattern.

He had, however, found two smooth, black glass buttons for eyes among the wares of one of the merchants in the courtyard. He was sewing on the first of them when a knock came upon the door.

Unlike most of the Chargers, Krem didn’t have to sleep in the barracks. Bull had used his questionable Qunari charm to secure a few shared rooms for the core group. Although Krem’s room was small, it was well-lit and warm, and, after years of sleeping on cots or on the ground, he welcomed having a bed of his own again. And, unlike Bull’s other favorites, Krem had to share the room with only one other person instead of two or three, so he had a fair amount of privacy. And, since Stitches understood Krem’s need for privacy, Krem had chosen the healer as a roommate.

Assuming that Stitches had forgotten his keys again, Krem set aside his sewing project and opened the door.

Except that it wasn’t Stitches. Rather it was an attractive young woman with long, dark ringlets, her bronze cheeks chapped from the cold, carrying a green bottle in one hand, two hammered goblets in the other.

“Are you Cremisius Aclassi?” she asked. When Krem responded in the affirmative, she smiled, holding up the bottle. “Delivery for you. Mind if I come in? It’s awfully cold outside.”

Krem debated for a second. He’d seen this girl around Skyhold before, carrying a musical instrument, so he felt moderately secure that she wasn’t an assassin. Not that anyone had ever sent an assassin after _him_. And because he hadn’t been raised in a barn, he never turned down a request for hospitality.

“Sure,” Krem said, standing back to give her room. “Warm yourself by the fire.”

The woman handed him the bottle as she stepped past him. Krem closed the door with one hand, studying the bottle with the other. The label declared it a fine wine, from Tevinter.

Glancing up, he noticed that the woman had indeed moved closer to the fire. The light behind her made a fiery halo of her loose hair, and made the silhouette of her body, all hourglass curves, visible through her dress. “’Fraid I don’t know your name,” he said.

The woman shrugged off her cloak, then tossed it aside on the nearest object, which was Stitches’ bed. “My name’s Lily Petals,” she said. Holding up the goblets, she asked, “Care to share the wine?”

Krem wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but it was his habit to be polite to the ladies he encountered. “Sure,” he said. Reaching for the utility knife at his belt, he worked the cork free. Sheathing the knife again, he then stepped forward to pour the wine in the waiting goblets. Setting the half full bottle on the mantle of the hearth, he then accepted one of the goblets from her. “So... uh... did Bull send this?”

Lily took a sip of wine and then smiled. “The Iron Bull? I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Judging by her smile, Krem decided that the woman wasn’t _adverse_ to the idea of taking pleasure with the Qunari. _Better not to ask about that._ Regarding her curiously, he asked instead, “So who did send the wine?”

Lily ignored his question. Instead, still smiling enigmatically, she said, “That’s not all.” Lifting her free hand, she let it settle on the laces on her dress. Then, slowly, deliberately she tugged at the topmost lace. As it unraveled, the fabric pulled away, nearly spilling out her ample breasts.

For the briefest of moments, Krem was unable to tear his eyes away from Lily’s bronze hand as it continued to move down, opening her corset. In a few more seconds, she was going to reveal a lot more than some impressive cleavage.

“Uh...” Krem sputtered, “Are you... umm... trying to seduce me?”

Lily’s dark eyes flashed with mirth. “Handsome soldier like you – don’t you want to have a good time?” she asked. Stepping forward, she closed the distance between them. Hand on Krem’s shoulder, letting it trail down to his chest. “Besides, it’s already been paid for.”

Krem quickly grabbed her hand, prying it gently off his still-bound chest. “Look,” he said, trying to keep his voice low and steady. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.” When she regarded him quizzically, he added, “Who’d you say sent you?”

Lily stared at him for a moment, her pretty lips pursed in thought. Then she sighed. “Mister Pavus.”

_Mister Pavus? What the actual fuck?_ Krem hadn’t had any intentions of letting himself be seduced by this woman. He may have come a long way with accepting his body as it was, but sex without love? It wasn’t what he wanted. And love? _Whatever._

Stepping back, Krem released Lily’s hand. “Uh... you seem like a really nice girl, but... I think you should go.”

If Lily were surprised or offended, she didn’t let it show. Instead she merely set her wine goblet upon the hearth, and quickly laced up her dress again before picking up and donning her cloak. Crossing the room, she opened the door, then paused in the doorway. “Well, soldier,” she said, with a coy smile. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, Krem released the breath he hadn’t even realized that he’d been holding. Closing his eyes, he counted slowly to five. Opening them again, he then hurled the goblet with a growl at the hearth, the red wine sizzling in the flames.

Whirling about, Krem grabbed his sword and marched angrily to the door.

_Dorian Pavus? You are dead meat._

\---------------------------------

He’d found the tome on Nevarran death magic tucked away behind some other books, an incomplete multi-volume set of _History of the Chantry._

In hindsight, he could have found a better hiding place. His initial thought was that the history books would remain untouched. On further reflection, though, the Chantry presence at Skyhold was not negligible. On more than one occasion he’d seen Mother Giselle wandering the stacks on a search for proper reading material – at least when she wasn’t quietly disapproving of Dorian’s _lifestyle choices._

His preference for men wasn’t a choice. But his relationship with Bull _was._ And since word had gotten out that he was sleeping with the Qunari spy, he’d been receiving more than his usual number of disapproving looks. The only ones who didn’t seem to care, other than the Inquisitor, were Varric, who had wanted details for his latest book, and Sera, who had enjoyed teasing him. _It’s like falling through a tree into custard. Too high! Wham! Too fast! Wham! Leaves! Wham! Splat!_

He hadn’t known what was worse: the mockery or the accuracy.

Still, that didn’t stop him from wondering if the Iron Bull’s door would be unlocked again tonight.

_Focus, Pavus!_ he chided himself. Certainly he had more important things to do. Such as find new magics that would help him aid the Inquisition. He was here to stop Corypheus and save the world. Not to be distracted by an illicit affair with a Qunari.

Returning his attention to the book in his lap, Dorian flipped the page and continued to read. He hadn’t been reading long when he heard the sounds of footfalls growing louder, boot heels clacking up the nearby stairwell.

At first he thought it might be the Inquisitor. In this late hour, few people came to the library, though Lavellan came to visit him at all hours. Except that the elf had a very light tread. Whoever this was, he was stomping up the stairs. Curious, Dorian craned his neck to see who was approaching, then felt dismayed when a familiar red-haired man appeared.

Cremisius Aclassi.

Spotting him seated in his niche, Krem made a bee-line for him. Stopping before his chair, Krem growled. “You paid a prostitute to come to my room?”

Technically Lily was a bard, not a prostitute, though the distinction between the two was sometimes blurred. But clearly all had not gone to plan, otherwise Krem would still be with the girl and not standing here. Which made no sense, because, as he’d been assured by numerous sources, no hot-blooded straight male would be able to resist Lily Petals’ abundant charms.

“Not only that,” Dorian said airily, “but I also sent a bottle of wine.”

Krem stared at him blankly. Fingers twitched near the hilt of his sword. Then he barked, “Why?”

Obviously, Dorian couldn’t explain the real reason of wanting to get Krem out of his way. “According to Bull... well, shall we say I had the impression that your dance card hasn’t exactly been filled lately.”

A muscle in Krem’s jaw twitched.

“So,” Dorian added, “I was just trying to help.”

In no uncertain terms, Krem told Dorian exactly where he could stick his _help._ Then, with a sneer, Krem turned around and stormed back off down the stairs, boot heels echoing against the stone until they gradually diminished and then disappeared.

Dorian sat still, hands tightly gripping the edges of his tome, silently seething. Dorian was well aware that he couldn’t force Krem to like him, but for Krem to not only refuse his help, but to insultingly toss it back in his face? _That_ was unacceptable.

For a moment, Dorian, unwilling to give up, pondered his failure. Cremisius Aclassi was clearly a male, and a hot-blooded one, at that, yet he’d turned Lily down. Which, in Dorian’s mind, could only mean one thing.

Smiling to himself, he revised his plan.

_Never send a woman to do a man’s job._

\---------------------------------

Three days later, there was an incident in the training yard.

Since coming to Skyhold, it had become Krem’s habit to spar with Bull on a daily basis. Training kept him sharp on the battlefield, and Bull’s knowledge of hand-to-hand combat was so extensive that even now, after years of working together, Bull still had a few tricks up his figurative sleeve. Training also served the purpose of keeping Krem strong and fit. Having been born with a female body meant that he had to work twice as hard for his muscle. He’d never be as ripped as Bull – then again, most humans and even most Qunari couldn’t compare – but, especially in his armor, Krem resembled what he was. A tank.

On this day, however, his boss had secluded himself in his room, writing coded letters to the _Ben-Hassrath,_ and feeding them selective information about the Inquisition _._ Krem didn’t understand much more than the basic tenets of the Qun, though he did understand Bull’s loyalty. For Bull _was_ still loyal, despite the fact that he spent most of his time either lazing about of overindulging in drink, food and sex – which were all clear violations of the Qun.

The training yard was available for use by any of the denizens of Skyhold. So whenever Bull wasn’t available, Krem could usually find a sparring partner among Cullen’s recruits. He’d just finished warming up on one of the training dummies when one of Cullen’s captains approached him with an offer to run through some training exercises together.

Krem agreed readily. He knew the blond soldier by sight, if not by name. Not as young and cocksure as some of the boys who’d recently joined up, this man was perhaps Krem’s age, or a few years older, and rather experienced with a sword. Once they’d moved from the initial exercises onto the actual sparring, Krem was pleasantly surprised at how well-matched they were.

Soon a small crowd had gathered, watching Krem and the captain exchanging rapid blows, their sword strikes ringing through the air.

By the time they finished, Krem was breathing hard, and hot. Sweat trickled down into Krem’s eyes, pooled in his armpits, and slid down the furrow of his spine and under his binder. Lifting an arm, he wiped the sweat from his brow, then accepted the waterskin which his partner held out to him, taking a long swig of cold water before handing it back.

As the man took it, his fingers brushed purposefully over Krem’s.

As Krem blinked up at him, the Captain smiled. “You’re awfully sweaty,” he said. “Care to join me in the steams, Lieutenant?”

All of a sudden, Krem was looking at the man in a new light, noticing details for the first time. The way a glint of interest lit up his blue eyes. How his exposed throat and collarbones glistened with sweat. The way his clothing clung to his slim, but well-muscled body. His face, handsome, with well-chiseled features. Full lips.

And, on the middle finger of his right hand, he wore a simple silver ring. Which, Krem knew, was customary in Ferelden when a man wanted to signal his sexual preference for men.

Krem cleared his throat. “Nah,” he said. “Think I’ll just wash up in private.”

Undaunted, the captain took a small step closer. “In that case... perhaps I could come along? Help you wash your back?”

On the road with the Chargers, Krem had been hit on before, by men and women alike. But for it to happen twice in one week? That was unusual. With suspicion, he regarded the man. “Did Dorian Pavus send you?”

The Captain paused. “Does it matter?” he finally asked. “Tell you the truth, he merely suggested it. If I’d known you were interested in men... I would have come sooner.”

A sudden flare of anger blossomed in his chest, hot and bitter. “I’m not,” he growled, speaking slowly through gritted teeth. “Interested. In anyone. So... get out of here.”

The Captain paused again. Then he took another aggressive step forward.

Krem didn’t really know what the man’s intentions were. All he knew was that the man was coming at him suddenly. Without thinking, Krem reacted. Hand curled into fist, then arm shooting out through the air, then a loud meaty _smack!_ as Krem’s fist made contact.

His head snapping back, the Captain staggered and fell.

From the dissipating crowd, a cry rose up.

A moment later, Cullen had appeared. Kneeling down, Cullen reached for him. “Micah! Are you all right?” After the Captain had mumbled his reassurances through bloodied lips that he was fine, Cullen turned his angry glare on the Charger. “Krem! What in Andraste’s name were you _thinking?”_

That Cullen was blaming him was hardly fair. Barely able to ignore the stab to his pride, Krem shot back, “You wanna blame someone? Blame Dorian Pavus!”

“Dorian...?” Cullen stared at him in confusion. Then he snapped, “I don’t know what your problem with Dorian is, but if he’s the one who’s upset you, perhaps it’s _him_ you should be punching in the face!”

Realizing what he’d just suggested, Cullen’s expression changed to one of dismay. “Wait. Krem? That isn’t what I meant...”

Still seething, Krem turned on his heel with a grunt, angrily striding away from the yard, with a new purpose. Thinking:

_Punching Dorian Pavus? That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day._

\---------------------------------

Fueled by rage, Krem searched all of Skyhold until he found Dorian in the Undercroft.

Dorian stood at the far end, flanked by the Inquisitor and Skyhold’s Arcanist, Dagna. Studying some sketches upon a table, none of them heard Krem until the Charger was nearly upon them. At which point, the three of them turned, regarding him curiously.

Pointing a finger at the mage, Krem released all his anger and frustration in a gush of words, almost unaware that he had switched into his native Tevene. “I thought I told you to stay out of my fucking business!”

Dorian stiffened, magic crackling between his fingertips. Responding in the same, Dorian said coolly, “Are you going to calm down? Or would you really prefer to cause a scene?”

Calming down was not an option. “If causing a scene gets you the fuck out of my face, then that’s what we’re doing.”

Dorian sniffed. “Are you even aware of how childish you’re behaving?”

Krem grimaced. “You started it.”

“And he makes my point!” Dorian said grandly with a sweep of his arm, as if announcing it to the room. Beside him Dagna and the Inquisitor, who hadn’t understood a word, exchanged a confused glance. “Seriously, I must know. Just what is your problem with me, Aclassi?”

Enough was enough. He was done with this shit. He wasn’t going to let Dorian interfere with his life anymore. “You want the whole list, mage boy, or just the top ten?”

Crossing his arms, Dorian lifted his chin, looking defiantly down his nose at Krem. “Oh, please. Surprise me.”

“First, I ain’t your bloody friend. I don’t need or want your help. So you should keep your nose outta my business. Second, I don’t even like you. You’re a pampered altus and one cocky, arrogant bastard. Third, I don’t trust you.”

Dorian snorted lightly. “You aren’t the first –”

Krem cut him off. “I wasn’t done.”

Icy. Hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Do go on.”

Krem’s eyes narrowed. “And another thing - just what are your intentions? Cause if you think that I’m gonna just stand by and let you play around with Bull, you’re bloody wrong.”

Dorian’s mask slipped, and fleeting hurt flashed across his face. “My intentions!” he repeated. Then, composing himself again, he unclenched his fists and stared haughtily at Krem. “You know what your problem is? You’re just _jealous.”_

The word launched like a projectile, it struck its target. Krem felt the blow as it crumpled his heart. Angrier than ever, he lashed out. “Pavus? Go fuck yourself.”

Something in Dorian’s expression shifted, anger melting and solidifying into resignation. “Fine,” he said coldly, already turning to leave. “If that’s how you are going to speak to me, then we are done speaking.”

Still quivering with rage, Krem watched in silence as Dorian stormed off.

Dagna and the Inquisitor exchanged another confused glance. Then, with concern in her eyes, Dagna placed a gentle hand on Krem’s arm. “Lieutenant Aclassi?” she ventured. “Are you all right?”

Instinctively, Krem jerked back with a growl. “Don’t touch me!”

Startled, Dagna took a quick step back, her mouth open in surprise.

The Inquisitor frowned. “Umm... Krem? I don’t know what’s gotten you so upset about Dorian, but that’s no reason to take it out on Dagna.”

Still furious, Krem couldn’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. “Dorian needs to mind his own fucking business,” he growled. “And, you know what, Your Worship? So do you.”

As the hurt manifested on Lavellan’s face, Krem instantly regretted what he’d said. But it was too late to take the words back, the damage already done.

_You bloody fool,_ Krem chastised himself.

Without another word to the Arcanist or the Inquisitor, he left.

 


	5. Inquisitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krem spends some time with the Inquisitor.

When a knock came upon Krem’s door that night, he opened it with trepidation.

The Iron Bull stood there.

After his confrontation with Dorian, he’d remained angry for quite some time. His thoughts, all unkind, had tended to cycle between _Who bloody cares what that bastard thinks?, Just wait until Bull gets sick of him then tosses him aside,_ and _Jealous of him? As if._

The latter had struck a nerve. Only once he’d calmed down did he begin to question why.

It had nothing to do with his feelings for Bull. Krem respected the Qunari. Loved him fiercely, even, in the way that a soldier could love his commanding officer and a comrade in arms. But there was nothing romantic or sexual about it. As he’d said, when the topic had jokingly come up once around a campfire, _Sorry, Chief. You just ain’t my type._

_Was_ he jealous of Dorian Pavus? Sure, the guy had grown up with privilege. The cream of the Tevinter elite. But Krem didn’t judge a man based on his class, and money, though it was useful, didn’t matter that much to him. And he sure as shit didn’t care that Dorian was a powerful mage. Magic? It had never impressed him.

If Krem were to be honest, though... he was kind of jealous of one thing: Dorian’s beautiful and perfectly male body. Tall and fit, he was both well-muscled and well-proportioned. An ideal specimen of masculinity. Because of Bull, Krem had eventually come to terms with what he’d considered his “defective” body, and had learned how to love himself. But there was a long period of time before that when Krem would have killed to have a body like Dorian’s.

Now, Krem blinked up at the leader of the Chargers with some surprise. It was the first time that Bull had come to his room. Though, given the recent events of the past few days, he’d been bracing himself for another one of Dorian’s attempts to “help.”

Standing aside, Krem made a gesture of welcome. “Come on in, Chief.”

Bull had to duck under the doorway. So large, he practically filled the room. Straightening again, his eye fell on the healer, who was propped up in his own bed with a book. “Stitches,” Bull said. “I need to talk to Krem for a few minutes. In private.”

Unperturbed, Stitches just set aside his book as he rose from the bed. With a jaunty wave he slipped past them and out of the room, closing the door behind himself.

As Bull eased himself down to the edge of Krem’s bed, Krem leaned back against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

“I heard about what went down between you and Dorian,” Bull said.

_From Dorian,_ were the implicit words. Krem, silent, tried to gauge Bull’s expression, but it was inscrutable. Intuiting that more was coming, Krem waited.

Bull’s one good eye remained fixed on Krem’s face. “You know, Dorian’s been through a lot,” he said. “Most of that bluster of his is just an act. And he may not talk about his feelings, but... he feels things. Probably too much.”

Krem scuffed his toe against the stone floor. “And you’re telling me this because...?”

Bull paused, his eye still fixed. Scrutinizing. “I ain’t asking you to like him,” he finally said. “You don’t need to be best buddies. But we’re all in this Inquisition business together, so you’re gonna have to deal with Dorian. And it would make my life easier if you could at least make an effort to be nicer to him.”

Krem shifted. Tightened his arms around himself. Thought carefully about Bull’s request. “Yeah, fine,” Krem acquiesced. “As long as he stops sticking his big mage nose in my business.”

“I’ll pass that along.” Slapping his thighs, Bull rose to his feet. Before he ducked back through the door, he stopped to regard Krem once more. “Another thing, Krem. You probably should apologize to the Inquisitor. He was worried about you, and what you said – it wasn’t very nice.”

Krem swallowed down the lump in his throat. It tasted like guilt. But the Iron Bull wasn’t wrong and he knew it. “Yeah,” Krem mumbled. “I will.”

“Yeah,” Bull said. “Good talk.”

“Sure, Chief.”

Krem waited until Bull had ducked out the door. Watched as he ambled down the hall without glancing back. The thing about the Iron Bull was that he was always watching his back – unless Krem was there. They both knew that Krem always had his back. Then Krem closed the door. Slumping against it, he thought about how he’d treated the Inquisitor and sighed.

If the Inquisitor didn’t forgive him? Well, Krem would hardly be surprised. And from that glint of disappointment in Bull’s eye? Krem didn’t expect to be forgiven. It hardly made him want to run out and seek the Inquisitor now.

_Tomorrow,_ he decided. _I’ll apologize to Dagna and the Herald first thing tomorrow._

\----------------------------

He went to the Undercroft first.

“Oh, it’s totally fine!” Dagna said. “No need to apologize to me. You and Mister Pavus... you were both clearly very upset about... something. It happens.”

Krem reached up to awkwardly rub the back of his neck. It was obvious that Dagna was curious about the nature of the argument, but... well, Krem didn’t want to explain how he’d gotten mad when Dorian had thrown first a whore, then a handsome guardsman at him. Or how, in any other circumstance, he would have been flattered, and possibly even tempted. In his head, it still sounded like ten kinds of _wrong._

_Best to change the subject._ “I don’t suppose you know where I could find the Inquisitor?”

Dagna lit up – having a problem to solve suited her. “Well, I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty, but... usually at this time of day, the Inquisitor is in his quarters. Doing Inquisitor things. You could try there.”

Krem wasn’t sure he wanted to risk disturbing the Inquisitor in his quarters. Shit, he didn’t even know where the Inquisitor’s quarters were. But when Dagna gave him directions and assured him that the Inquisitor welcomed visitors, Krem headed off. _Better to get it over with,_ he thought. _Let the Herald bite my head off, if he’s gonna._

Krem climbed the stairs, then found himself in a large, lofty bedroom, sparsely furnished. Wardrobe, bed, bookshelves, and a desk, at which the Inquisitor sat, scratching away at a piece of parchment with a quill pen. As Krem stopped upon the landing, the Inquisitor glanced up. For a moment he just stared blankly at Krem.

“Beg pardon, Your Worship,” Krem said. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened yesterday. In the Undercroft.”

Lavellan’s ears twitched. Then he carefully set down his pen, giving Krem his full attention. “Yes? Go on, Krem.”

He’d rehearsed what he was going to say in his head. Eloquence wasn’t Krem’s strongest point, but he wasn’t an inarticulate country bumpkin, either. However, his carefully-practiced speech had flown clean out of his head. “Yeah, I shouldn’t have said what I said. About you minding your own business,” Krem blurted out. “I was an asshole and... I’m sorry.”

Lavellan’s eyebrows had lifted. For a moment they remained that way, then his expression smoothed over. “Yes, I... I see.”

Uncertain if he’d been forgiven, Krem plowed ahead. “Wish I could make it up to you,” Krem said, then cleared his throat. “Just not sure how.”

The Inquisitor regarded Krem thoughtfully for a moment as he fiddled with his pen. Krem was already assuming the worst – that the Inquisitor wasn’t going to forgive him. Not only that, the elf was going to kick him out of the Inquisition. Or worse – call in the guards and have him thrown out of the Inquisition via the balcony. He was seriously considering bolting back down the stairs to spare himself a terrible fate when the Inquisitor smiled warmly at him.

“You can make it up to me,” the Inquisitor purred, “by buying me lunch.”

\----------------------------

Other than the mess hall, there was only one place in Skyhold that served anything resembling lunch: The Herald’s Rest.

Once they’d settled in and taken care of the business of ordering, Krem felt awkward to be sitting in the tavern with the Inquisitor. Sure, most of their previous conversations had taken place here. Usually the Inquisitor would find him, seated in his favorite corner, enjoying a bottle of wine and listening to Maryden in his down time. Standing there, the Inquisitor would fidget with his mage robes, or with the strands of colorful beads he always wore beneath it, and nearly always pose the same question: _Can we talk about the Bull’s Chargers?_

Today, though, the Inquisitor didn’t pose that question. Instead, he fiddled with the spoon that the serving girl had set before him on the table, eyes as big and gray as lakes on a stormy day. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

Krem shifted. Tugged at the collar of his loose shirt, half-wishing he’d put on his armor this morning before seeking the Inquisitor out, but he hadn’t wanted to look ready for battle. He was certain he knew what the Inquisitor’s question was going to be. Same as anyone who’d clocked him, and some variation about what was – or wasn’t – in Krem’s pants.

“What would you like to know, Your Worship?”

The spoon softly clattered against the table as it slipped accidentally from the Inquisitor’s grip. Ignoring it, Lavellan folded his hands. “Do you miss Tevinter?”

Not the question he’d been expecting. Normally he didn’t give a rat’s arse about who knew, but, for some reason he couldn’t explain, he was relieved that the Inquisitor hadn’t clocked him after all.

Krem considered for a moment. Did he miss Tevinter?

“Nah, not really,” he said. “It’d be different, I suppose, if my family hadn’t gone from middle class to poor. Or if there’s been any magic in my family. Tevinter’s only a good place if you’re rich, or a mage.”

“And human,” the Inquisitor added.

“Yeah, there’s that.”

Silence fell as the serving girl returned to the table with a bottle of wine. The Inquisitor thanked her for it, then set to filling both their glasses. “So...” he said. “If you don’t mind my asking... what happened to your family?”

_That_ was a whole can of worms. Accepting the glass, Krem took a sip, thinking about what he wanted to reveal. “My father was a tailor. He did pretty good business, too. Until some noble decided that he was going to use slaves to make clothes. No overhead meant that he could sell them cheaply in the market. I mean, his intentions were good – he’d done it to help keep people from freezing, but... my father couldn’t compete, so he lost his business.” Krem paused, recalling his parents’ fights about money, and how he’d hated how their voices, sharp and angry like knives, had penetrated his bedroom wall. “Anyway, not too long after that, less than a year, my father sold himself into slavery to save the family from ruin.”

The Inquisitor regarded him very seriously for a moment. “That sounds like it must have been very difficult for you,” he said gently. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

What he hadn’t told the Inquisitor: how his mother had blamed him for the loss of his father. Because he’d refused to marry the man they’d chosen for him, the one from a decent family with money. His mother had wanted to force Krem into the marriage for convenience, but his father had taken Krem’s side, the engagement called off even before it had gone public. He’d refused vehemently. Not because he felt an aversion to men – in fact, he’d had a boyhood crush on at least one male friend – but because he didn’t even _like_ his intended fiance, much less love him.

_Love? Whatever._

“Yeah, well... turned out all right for my mother,” Krem said. “As for me, I joined the army soon as I was old enough, so it was one less mouth to feed. So, things for her improved even more once I was out of the house.”

“And your father? Is he still a slave?”

“Last I heard, he was. At least he was well-treated. Unlike... some of the others.”

“You mean elves.”

Krem paused. Across from him, the Inquisitor was toying with his necklace. He didn’t look angry or upset, just... sad. “If you wanna talk about slavery in Tevinter, then I’d suggest you go speak to Dorian about it. He’d know more about keeping elves as slaves than I do.”

The Inquisitor sighed. “We have talked about it,” he said. “Dorian considers slavery to a be a sort of ‘necessary evil’ in Tevinter. But...” Lavellan trailed off, thoughtful again, “... I think, his viewpoint on that has been changing. Especially since he’s joined the Inquisition.”

Dorian Pavus was the last thing Krem wanted to talk about. Foolish of him to even bring the Tevinter mage up.

“So,” Krem said as he lifted his wine glass, “what about you, Your Worship? You miss your homeland?”

The Inquisitor became thoughtful again, this time rubbing a hand slowly across his beardless jaw. “It’s different, being surrounded by humans,” he said. Quickly, he added, “Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with humans. The Lavellan clan? Unlike the other clans, we actively traded with humans. Though as First, I rarely had any interaction with anyone who wasn’t an elf.”

“The first...?”

As Lavellan spoke about his role – basically the clan’s mage-in-residence who assisted the one he called the Keeper, the woman who ran the clan – Krem listened and drank. As Lavellan continued to talk about life in the Dales, Krem continued to listen and drink, and kept him talking by tossing out additional questions. The Charger, Dalish, in keeping with her ruse as an archer, never spoke much about her own clan or her role in it, other than at some point she’d had to leave, and, instead of joining a different clan, had decided to go see the world. So everything that the Inquisitor told him was new and fascinating.

They were on their second bottle when the food arrived. As they ate, Krem continued to ask the Inquisitor questions. The way the words bubbled out of the Inquisitor, Krem started to wonder if anyone in the Inquisition had ever bothered to ask the elf anything personal about himself. Like the wine before them, Lavellan had kept everything bottled up until Krem had popped off the cork and allowed the words to pour out.

Also, judging by the slight flush in the Inquisitor’s cheeks, the wine had taken affect.

Krem also felt a buzz – as if everything in the Herald’s Rest were wrapped in a warm, fuzzy cloud, slowing down time, and fading all the noise in the background to a distant din. Leaving only the buttery feel of the potatoes and the savory taste of the meat in his mouth, the heaviness of the wine glass in his hand, and the dark, rich droning of the Inquisitor’s voice swirling around in his head.

There was a point in his life when Krem would have killed to have a voice like that. It didn’t boom like Bull’s. Instead it was ocean deep, plush and warm like velvet.

The meal complete, Krem watched Lavellan’s hands as he drained the last of the wine into their glasses, wisely not calling for more. They were small hands, with long fingers. Unlike Krem’s hands, rough and battered from years with the sword, the Inquisitor’s hands were elegant.

Realizing he was staring, Krem lifted his gaze to the Inquisitor’s face. Speaking about the Dalish gods, his expression serious, yet kind.

_He’s... pretty,_ Krem thought, wondering why he hadn’t really noticed before. The Inquisitor wasn’t ruggedly good-looking like Cullen, or suavely handsome like Dorian, but he was certainly pretty. In that elfy way. Not that Krem had paid much attention to elves before, despite the fact that, while growing up in Tevinter, there had been plenty of elves about, and elven brothels quite popular to the point of elves being some people’s fetish. But Krem had personally never found an elf attractive before. Until now.

Perhaps it was the wine, but he knew that he shouldn’t be having these thoughts about the Inquisitor.

After the serving girl had cleared away their dirty plates, the Inquisitor’s expression suddenly changed. Chagrined. “The Dread Wolf take me,” he muttered. “I’ve been rambling on and on this whole time! I must have bored you.”

As the Inquisitor blinked at him with his big, gray – _pretty_ – eyes, Krem had to search to find his voice. “Umm... don’t worry. ‘S fine.”

Leaning back in his chair, the Inquisitor looked relieved. Then he smiled. “Oh! I was meaning to ask you about something.”

Krem was sure again. He’d been wrong – the Inquisitor had clocked him after all. With trepidation, he asked, “What is it, Your Worship?”

Long fingers traced over the beaded necklace again. “Well, I found out that you’ve been making stuffed nugs for the ladies,” he admitted. “They’re very... cute.”

Krem felt the heat rising to his face. “You saw them?”

Lavellan smiled again. “Leliana showed me hers.”

_Awkward. This is awkward._ “Yeah. Uh, Leliana has a thing for ‘em.”

Suddenly shy, the Inquisitor softly cleared his throat. “I don’t want to impose, but... if you have time... could you make me one?”

_He wants me... to make him... a toy._ Krem barely managed to stifle a laugh. “I’d be honored, Your Worship.”

The Inquisitor beamed at him. “I’d like that,” he said. Then he cleared his throat again. “I really should get back to work. But I very much enjoyed speaking with you.”

In Krem’s chest, his heart did a strange little flip. A flip he didn’t want to think about too closely, because _he shouldn’t be having fucking feelings for the bloody Herald of Andraste._ Still, that didn’t stop him from extending his invitation. “If you’re free some evening, Your Worship,” Krem said, “you should come have drinks with Bull and me and the Chargers.”

The Inquisitor paused. Krem held his breath. Then the Inquisitor smiled again, this time as warm as a Spring day at the beach in Tevinter.

“Yes,” Lavellan said. “I’d be delighted.”

\----------------------------

Every evening, Krem passed his time in the tavern with Bull and the Chargers.

He wasn’t waiting for the Inquisitor. At least, that’s what he told himself, even though he couldn’t help but to crane his neck every time someone opened the door. And he certainly wasn’t disappointed each time when the Inquisitor did not appear.

After three nights of _not_ waiting impatiently for the Inquisitor, Krem took matters into his own hands. Casually he leaned over to Bull during a lull in one of the conversations and made his suggestion.

_Hey, Chief – why don’t you invite the Inquisitor to come have a drink with us?_

Bull laughed. _I had a drink with the boss once,_ he said. _Talked a shit ton about hunting dragons, but the man can’t hold his liquor._

It would have looked suspicious if Krem had pressed the issue. So he didn’t. And he certainly didn’t expect anything to come out of it.

Yet, the following evening, the Inquisitor appeared.

“Ah, good, we’re not drinking alone,” Bull said. Casting an amused glance at his lieutenant, he said, “How’re you doing, Krem de la Krem?”

Krem gave the Inquisitor an apologetic look. “Your Worship. I’m so glad he has someone new to hit with that joke.”

There was an empty chair across from them. The Inquisitor slipped down into it. Diplomatically, he said, “I can think of worse places to go with Cremisius.”

_If you only knew,_ Krem thought. His least favorite? _Krem Puff._ “So can the Chief, believe me. He loves his nicknames.”

“Hey,” Bull protested amiably, “when I was growing up, my name was just this series of numbers. We all give each other nicknames under the Qun.”

“They ever wear shirts under the Qun, Chief?” Krem teased. And then, before he could even think to stop the words coming out of his mouth, he added, “Or do they run around binding their breasts like that?”

Bull’s voice dropped. A warning. “It’s a harness. Krem.”

Krem didn’t even look at the Inquisitor. He’d thought about the Inquisitor over the past few days, though. Mostly he’d wondered why he’d been so worried that the Inquisitor would find out his secret – which wasn’t even a secret anymore. Krem hadn’t come to a conclusion – all he knew was that worrying about it was exhausting, and that he’d rather just plunge ahead and make sure that the Herald knew.

“Yes, for your pillowy man bosoms,” he continued. “Let me know if you need help binding. You could really chisel something out of that overstuffed look.”

Bull grunted softly.

Now Krem looked at the Inquisitor. Lavellan wore the familiar, serious expression as he spent a quiet moment studying Krem. His next words surprised Krem. “Did you always know?”

_Did you always know?_ That was it. No shock, no weirdness, no rudely invasive questions.

“Yes,” Krem admitted. “It’s not the most fortunate thing to know about yourself growing up in Tevinter, one rung above slavery.”

The Inquisitor nodded.

Between his broad knees, Bull made a loose gesture with one of his hands. “In _Qunandar,_ Krem would be an _Aqun-Athlak_. That’s what we call someone born one gender but living like another.”

Krem paused. Why was this the first time he was hearing about this? Given how relevant it was to Krem’s situation, he would have thought the big lout could have mentioned it sooner. “And Qunari don’t treat those... _Aqun_ people any differently than a real man?”

Bull met Krem’s gaze, his tone serious as a festering wound. “They are real men. Just like you are.”

Krem felt a sudden prickling in his eye. _Chief, you dumbass..._ “Hmm,” he muttered. “Maybe your people aren’t so bad after all.”

Bull gave him a less-than-menacing warning about back talk. Before Krem could sass him again, Bull turned back to their guest, then promptly began introducing him to the rest of the Chargers – the ones who hadn’t wandered off in search of stronger drink. Once Bull had finished his introductions, the Inquisitor began asking each of the Chargers questions.

As Lavellan’s attention drawn to the others, Krem was able to surreptitiously study the man. He wore his usual voluminous mage robes, and his dark hair down, just long enough to reach his shoulders. His gray eyes remained fixed on the person he was conversing with, as if they were the only person in the room. And, when he spoke in that deep, lush voice of his, he gesticulated, making sweeping motions with his elegant hands.

He was _intense._ And, more than pretty, he was... beautiful.

_Stop it,_ Krem silently berated himself. _No use in having these feelings for someone who obviously doesn’t want them._ Except that he couldn’t stop himself from admiring the Inquisitor. Nor could he stop his heart from doing that strange little flip whenever the Inquisitor would smile at him.

After the introductions, Bull and the Inquisitor began to discuss the Storm Coast. It was the first that Krem had heard about it, and, by the way the two men danced around the subject, it was clearly a clandestine mission.

“We leave tomorrow. I’ll need you and your Chargers,” the Inquisitor was saying. “But we’re keeping the contingent small, so bring only your best men.”

“You’re looking at them,” Bull assured him. “Don’t worry – the Inquisition will be getting their money’s worth.”

The Inquisitor glanced about, his gaze resting on one man after the other before lingering briefly on Krem. “I don’t doubt it,” he said. He then stood. “I should go, but... before I do, I’d like to have a word with Krem in private.”

_Damn my heart._ It had not done a little flip this time. Instead, it had practically jumped up into his throat, and begun galloping like a runaway horse. “Of course, Your Worship.”

Nerves tingling and his stomach tight, Krem feigned indifference as he rose from his chair, then followed the Inquisitor until they were near the bar, out of earshot of Bull and the others. For a moment, Krem waited awkwardly as the Inquisitor silently considered him.

Finally the Inquisitor spoke. “I’m bringing Dorian to the Storm Coast,” he blurted out.

Krem lifted an eyebrow. He certainly had opinions about Dorian Pavus coming with them to the Storm Coast, but he just managed to hold his tongue.

The Inquisitor cleared his throat, suddenly looking as awkward as Krem felt. “I just, uh, want to know if you have a problem with that.”

Krem considered. He was pretty sure that the Inquisitor wasn’t really asking for his opinion on bringing the mage, rather he was asking if Krem was going to _cause_ a problem.

It wasn’t his place to tell the Inquisitor who he could bring on a mission. Also, disappointing him was the last thing Krem wanted. Not to mention that he’d already promised Bull he’d try to be nicer to Dorian.

_Looks like we’ll find out if I can keep that promise tomorrow._

Krem put on what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “No, Your Worship,” he said. “No problem.”

 


	6. Storm Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian causes some mischief at the Storm Coast. Will his efforts at matchmaking finally pay off?

The morning’s rain had reduced to a drizzle, and now the sun was strong enough that Dorian could actually see the steam as it rose from the foliage, thickening the already humid air. He was sure that his hair, which had been so perfectly preened that morning at camp, was now a wilted disaster.

As they climbed the steepening slope, Dorian had to hike up his robes to avoid tripping over them. He’d worn his overcoat this morning because it had been freezing, and now he deeply regretted that decision. In Tevene, he muttered a few choice curses under his breath.

Just ahead of him, Bull walked alongside the Inquisitor. Who seemed to have no difficulty at all managing the terrain, despite his own long mage robes. As a Dalish elf, he was no doubt accustomed to traipsing through nature, unlike Dorian. As for Bull, the Qunari just forced his way through, trampling everything in his path.

_Not unlike how he has sex,_ Dorian thought.

Having heard Dorian’s grumblings, Bull tossed him an amused glance over one shoulder. “Welcome to the Storm Coast, ‘Vint.”

Dorian heaved a disdainful sigh. “The ‘Storm Coast’,” he echoed. “You southerners think of cheery names for these places, don’t you?”

At that, Bull just snorted a small laugh before turning around again.

If he hadn’t been so miserable, Dorian probably would have enjoyed the view. There was much to admire about the way the muscles in those broad shoulders and naked back _rippled_ as he moved. Not that he would admit that out loud, out of fear of causing his ancestors to turn over in their graves. Fortunately, Bull had stopped bragging about their sex life in public, so at least he was spared that humiliation. As he’d told the Inquisitor, publicly admitting that he was sleeping with Bull was like admitting that he liked _beer_ – better that nobody knew. Still, that wasn’t enough to stop him from continuing what was now a full-blown affair.

Behind him, he was somewhat gratified to note, Blackwall also struggled to keep pace. And, bringing up the rear, Bull’s Chargers, with Krem in the lead.

After his argument with Krem in the Undercroft, Dorian had fumed for hours. And then, still fuming, he’d gone to Bull’s room, where he’d unleashed his indignant rage. In response, Bull had pinned Dorian to the bed. By the time Bull’s tongue had worked its magic, Dorian had completely forgotten that he was angry. Then, floating in the blissful aftermath, while Dorian was too well-fucked to care about anything, Bull, after promising to have a “little talk” with his lieutenant, had mildly suggested that it might be better if Dorian stopped trying to play matchmaker.

Since learning of Krem’s reaction to the advances of Cullen’s captain – _violence!_ – Dorian had given up. _Kaffas,_ he still wasn’t even sure if Krem were interested in women or men. Which made playing matchmaker rather difficult.

Fortunately, he and Krem had managed to avoid each other during the journey to the Storm Coast, though, whenever they happened to cross paths, Krem silently still gave him the stink-eye.

After what felt like an eternity of trekking uphill, they finally reached a clearing. Dorian, Blackwall and the others held back as Bull and the Inquisitor stepped forward.

“All right,” Bull said as he cast his gaze about. “Our Qunari contact should be here to meet us.”

Adjusting the mage staff slung across his back, the Inquisitor nodded. As he did so, there was a rustling in the bushes, and an armed elf stepped out.

“He is,” the newcomer said. Then he smiled. “Good to see you again, Hissrad.”

Bull threw open his arms, the surprise and pleasure easily readable in his voice. “Gatt!” he exclaimed. “Last I heard, you were still in Seheron.”

Although he’d hung back, Dorian was still close enough that he could hear every word clearly. But what they were saying was less interesting to him – _red lyrium, Venatori mages, the Qunari Dreadnaught, blah, blah, blah_ – than _how_ they were saying it. The way they spoke to each other with such warmth and familiarity, it was quite obvious that they’d been good friends.

Or maybe... more than friends. Dorian fretted about that for a while. He wouldn’t have put it past Bull to have sex with an elf – after all, Bull had sex with just about anyone who was willing to “ride the Bull” as he’d so crudely put it. Suddenly, Dorian was hanging on every word, and actively seeking signs that would reveal the exact nature of Bull’s relationship with Gatt.

Was he jealous? Of course not.

Unfortunately, he still hadn’t acquired any conclusive evidence by the time the trio decided that their best course of action would be to split up and attack the two enemy camps simultaneously. Though he was vaguely relieved when Bull offered to stay with them, while the Chargers handled the second camp.

Then they were moving quickly. In just a few minutes, they had circled up and around and into the Venatori camp. Swords clashed and magic flew as they rushed into battle. Working as a tightly-knit unit, the Inquisition made quick work of dispatching the enemy. Dorian almost felt bad about how much he enjoyed murdering his own countrymen.

Almost.

As if he’d been lurking nearby, Gatt reappeared the moment the battle was over, and lit the pyre at the edge of the cliff to signal the Dreadnaught.

“Chargers already sent theirs up,” Bull said. “See them down there?”

Gatt, who had been crouching before the pyre, now lifted himself up. Dusting his hands off on his pants, he cast a glance over the edge to where the Chargers, triumphant, could be seen down on a slight hillock near the beach. Smiling at Bull, he said, “I knew you gave them the easier job.”

As they all watched, the Dreadnaught appeared out of the mist. It was an impressively large, sturdy-looking ship, nearly as wide as it was long – not unlike a Qunari. From its decks, it blasted two balls of fire straight at the smugglers’ smaller vessel.

Bull laughed. “Nice one,” he rumbled. Then, as they spotted movement on the beach below, all amusement fled from Bull’s face. “Crap.”

Six men were approaching. Even from a distance, their dark, hooded garb was easily recognizable as that of Venatori mages. On the hillock, the Chargers had also noticed the encroaching danger and had drawn their weapons, preparing to fight.

Six powerful Tevinter mages versus four of Bull’s Chargers? Even a child could have seen how that skirmish would end. In bloodshed.

At Bull’s side, the Inquisitor grew pale. “They’ve still got time to fall back if you signal them now.”

Bull grimaced. “Yeah.”

Gatt spun around. “Your men need to hold that position, Bull.”

Bull turned to him. His voice low, tone serious as a funeral. “They do that, they’re dead.”

Aghast, Gatt began to argue. If Bull called for his men to retreat, the Dreadnaught would be dead in the water, and all chance of an alliance between the Qunari and the Inquisition dead along with it. Bull would be exiled by his own people. Despite Tevinter’s long history of war with the Qunari and Dorian’s personal feelings about it, he was still aware of how beneficial such an alliance would be. It could mean that they’d be able to finally defeat Corypheus.

Dorian glanced at the Inquisitor. All the remaining color seemed to have drained out of the Inquisitor’s face, and he clutched anxiously at his own robes, bunching handfuls of heavy fabric in his fists. When Bull turned back to the Inquisitor for guidance, the words burst out of him in an impassioned plea. “No, Bull! You can’t let Krem die! Call the retreat!”

Bull cocked his head and looked at the Inquisitor for a brief moment. Then he lifted a horn to his lips and blew out a long note.

Utterly appalled, Gatt threw up his hands as if in defeat.

For a moment, Dorian remained paralyzed, as if in shock by what had just happened. Then he thought. He’d never seen the Inquisitor so emotional before. As Lavellan’s friend, Dorian was well aware that the Inquisitor had a soft spot for the Chargers. Except that Lavellan hadn’t just begged Bull to save the Chargers. No, he’d begged Bull to save _Krem._

Nobody noticed the crafty glimmer that appeared in Dorian’s eyes.

\----------------------------

The Inquisitor’s tent burned _brilliantly_.

Due to the late hour, Lavellan had decided that they would camp out at the Storm Coast. They’d set up extra tents for the Chargers and started cooking fires, while the mercenary healer tended to any minor wounds. In the midst of all this activity, no one had noticed that the Inquisitor’s tent was on fire until it was far too late.

Although the canvas had been treated to retard flames, the tent burned madly as if were made of paper. As the Inquisition soldiers ran to fetch buckets of water in order to douse the flames, Dorian stood in the ensuing chaos and watched it burn.

In mere moments, the tent was nothing more than ash.

“Bad news, boss,” Bull said.

On the Inquisitor’s face, a look of dismay. Then he sighed. “Well, at least no one got hurt,” he said. He then brushed back the hair that the rising cold wind had whipped across his cheek. “Of course, I don’t relish the idea of sleeping outside tonight.”

Only then did Dorian rouse himself to action. “Don’t be absurd,” Dorian said as he approached the party, all gathered around the blackened and smoldering remnants of the tent. “It’s going to be absolutely freezing tonight. You’ll have to share with someone else.”

Grim, the Inquisitor just rubbed at his jaw. “I suppose you’re right.”

Dorian then made a show of looking around the small crowd. “Unfortunately, most of us do seem to be doubled up already. However, I believe that the lieutenant of Bull’s Chargers is currently without a tent mate, so it only makes sense if you bunk down with him.”

Before the Inquisitor could protest, Dorian gave him a little shove in Krem’s direction.

Krem blinked. Then he coughed once. “No problem if you wanna share, Your Worship,” he muttered. “I’m sure we can dig up an extra bedroll and blanket for you.”

Lavellan gave Krem a weak smile. “Umm... thank you, Krem. That’s most generous of you.”

“Wonderful!” Dorian said. “I’m glad that’s settled. Now – who’s hungry?”

After dinner, Dorian retired to his own tent where he read for a bit by the light of a small, magical flame. Then, once he was certain that everyone else had retired for the night, he shut his tome, extinguished the flame, then crossed the short distance to Bull’s larger tent.

Once inside, he sat down on Bull’s bedroll. Reaching for Dorian’s robes, the Qunari wordlessly reeled Dorian in for one passionate kiss. Dorian’s head spun as Bull released him. Leaning back, Bull eyed him for a moment with suspicion. “’Vint,” he said. “Don’t tell me you had nothing to do with that fire.”

Dorian feigned innocence. “Really, Bull? You actually think that I’d set the Inquisitor’s tent on fire?”

Bull’s expression quite plainly said that, yes, he did believe it. But he didn’t say so. Instead, he just gave Dorian his disapproving look. “I thought we’d agreed you weren’t gonna play matchmaker with Krem anymore.”

He would have been chagrined at how easily Bull had seen through him, but he was still too pleased with how perfectly his plan had worked out. As members of the Inner Circle, he, Bull and Blackwall still had tents to themselves. If either Krem or the Inquisitor had refused to share, Dorian would have had to resort to blowing another tent off the cliff, and then blaming it on the wind. But the two men had fallen neatly into his trap. Dorian had read enough bad erotic fiction – mostly Varric’s – to know that there was no better way to ensure a night of passion than the whole share-the-blanket trope.

Still playing innocent, Dorian ignored Bull’s accusation. With a snort, he snapped, “Did you invite me here to exasperate me with talk? Or did you have something else in mind?”

Bull’s eye swept up and down over Dorian’s body. His gaze was so hot, that Dorian would have sworn that he could feel it through his clothes. Then Bull reached for him again.

Bull’s hungry mouth found his in a heady kiss. His tongue tasting faintly of wine, it danced in Dorian’s mouth, sending of sparks of pleasure racing through his flesh. More sparks shot through him as Bull’s calloused hands roughly pulled at his overcoat, then at the many buckles of his outfit, expertly and determinedly peeling Dorian out of his clothes. In moments, Dorian was naked, his eager member straining up in the air, expressing its need for attention.

Dorian gasped in delight as Bull pushed him down, pinning both of Dorian’s wrists above his head with one of his large hands. With the other, he stroked Dorian’s body until the mage could no longer bear his teasing, and began begging him for more.

Strange how being rendered so helpless still excited him so. He moaned a half-hearted protest as Bull continued to tease him with his touch, heating his blood, making him harder.

“Bull... please...” he breathed, writhing below the Qunari who now knelt over him, slowly stroking Dorian in his oiled fist.

Bull grinned. “Eager,” he muttered approvingly. “Good.” He then removed his hand to reach for the bottle of oil again, letting it dribble across his fingers, never releasing Dorian’s wrists from where they were pinned to the ground. Then, shifting, he spread Dorian’s legs, and settled himself between them.

Dorian gasped as Bull’s finger swirled around his entrance. As Bull pushed his finger in, Dorian reveled in the sensation as Bull expertly found and stroked his sweet spot.

Leaning down over Dorian, Bull took the mage into his mouth, moving both fingers and tongue in tandem.

_Vishante kaffas!_

Aching for more, Dorian begged to be taken. It was a torment when Bull ignored his pleas. And a relief when Bull finally pinned him down more firmly and spread his legs wider, then took him.

By now, Dorian’s body was accustomed to Bull. In fact, it was almost unnerving how easily Dorian managed to accommodate his massive cock. He was certain that the Qunari had forever ruined him for other men, but in this moment, he didn’t care.

“Harder...” Dorian breathlessly begged. “Fuck me harder...”

With a grunt, Bull obliged him.

Afterwards, Dorian lay there, feeling light as straw, as Bull gently massaged the bruises his grip had left on Dorian’s wrists. All around them, for several minutes, darkness and silence that was only filled by the soft pattering of the rain on the tent.

Bull was the one to break the silence. “After we defeat the bad guy,” he said. “You thought about it?”

Dorian, lazy and half-lost in a haze, tried to make sense of the question. “Thought about it?”

“Yeah. About us.”

Dorian paused. Wondered if that meant that Bull wanted to continue this. To be honest, his relationship with Bull had already outlasted every relationship he’d ever had, and that included his brief, but deeply intense relationship he’d had with his dying friend. Rilienus: the only man he’d ever loved, even though he’d never said the words.

He didn’t delude himself. He and Bull were not in love. But he did wonder: Could he love Bull? And could Bull love him? He didn’t know.

He needed time. But how much time did they really have when the world was about to end?

He was acutely aware that Bull was waiting patiently for his answer.

“I think we should just focus on defeating Corypheus,” Dorian said finally. “We’ll be lucky if we make it out alive. Then... well, if there is a future, we’ll see.”

\----------------------------

_This is really, really awkward._

Krem wasn’t ashamed of his body. Still, he understood how it was harder for some people to see him as a man once he was out of his clothes. Bull and his friends in the Chargers? They got it, but strangers usually didn’t. And he sure as shit didn’t enjoy being misgendered. So in public, he would always bind.

Of course, when he was in full armor, he didn’t need to bind, as the heavy metal plates hid his less-than-masculine attributes. Except now, in the tent with the Inquisitor, he hesitated to take off his armor and reveal the actual shape of his chest.

Looking just as uncomfortable as Krem felt, the Inquisitor sat on the extra bedroll they’d procured for him, looking everywhere but at Krem.

_Say something..._ Krem cajoled himself. He cleared his throat. “Guess we should just try to get some sleep if we want to get an early start in the morning.”

The Inquisitor reached up to tuck a lock of dark hair behind his ear for the fifth time since they’d retired for the night. “Yes, you’re right.”

Krem sat for a moment. The Inquisitor already knew, so it wasn’t like it was going to be a surprise when he took off his armor. _Well, here goes..._ Starting with his boots, he unlaced them, then kicked them off and setting them aside before he began to unbuckle the plates. Glancing at the Inquisitor, he noted that the elf hadn’t even moved.

Lavellan still wore his robes. And beneath that, he was wrapped in his own leather armor. Surely he couldn’t sleep like that and be comfortable.

Krem quirked a curious eyebrow. “Ain’t you gonna take off your robes?”

Lavellan cleared his own throat. Glanced up at Krem. “You know, I...” he began, then he grew pale. Dropping his eyes, he muttered, just under his breath, almost too softly to hear, “I can’t do this.”

“Your Wor –” Krem began, but, before the words were even out of his mouth, the Inquisitor had jumped up from his bedroll, then lunged towards the tent flaps, throwing them back before he hurled himself out into the night.

_What the bloody fuck?_ Completely baffled, Krem froze. Had he said something to offend the Inquisitor? Or was the Inquisitor actually disgusted to have to spend the night next to a man like Krem, only now showing his true colors? Or did it have something to do with why he’d been acting so awkward since the moment they’d been alone in his tent?

The truth hit Krem like a boulder tossed by a giant.

_Shit!_

Krem didn’t even stop to throw his boots back on. Scrambling to his feet, he burst out of the tent, and then chased after the Inquisitor in his socks.

Lightning cracked the dark sky. Heavy rain pelted Krem’s shoulders and face. Scanning the campsite, his eyes found the Inquisitor, hurrying away. With a roar that was almost a battle cry, Krem surged after him.

Pumping his legs, it took Krem six strides to catch up the Inquisitor. Without thinking, he reached out and clamped a hand down on the Inquisitor’s shoulder, forcing him to spin around. Big gray eyes widened even further as his pretty mouth parted in surprise. Krem’s other hand seized a handful of the Inquisitor’s now-damp robes, near his hip. Without thinking, he tugged the beautiful man closer to him. Leaning forward, he pressed his mouth against the Inquisitor’s lips.

The kiss was tentative at first. For a moment, the Inquisitor just froze. Krem couldn’t believe that he was actually kissing the Inquisitor. His lips still parted, they were soft and supple and unbelievably sweet, tasting like strawberries. Determined, Krem let the kiss softly linger.

Just when Krem was about to give up, the Inquisitor responded by kissing him back.

_Maker’s balls,_ the Inquisitor was quite good at kissing. Neither rough, not sloppy, it was an unhurried, exploratory thing. Tasting Krem, and letting himself be tasted. In his blood, Krem could feel a heat expanding his veins, warming him from the inside out, making him forget that they were standing in the cold, pelting rain.

Breathless, Krem drew back and met Lavellan’s eyes. All pupil in the dim light, and big as the moons. “Your Worship?” Krem said. “Why’d you run?”

The Inquisitor stiffened slightly. Then he drew a quick, deep breath. “Because I like you!”

Krem froze. He’d suspected this, but to actually hear the words said aloud somehow managed to surprise him, and turn his thoughts to syrup. For a minute, the words kept ticking, turning in his head like a clock gear. _The Inquisitor... likes... me._

The Inquisitor paled. His expression shifted to one of utter mortification. “Oh, _fenedhis_...” he muttered. “I’m sorry... I read that wrong.”

As though he’d been smacked with the dull side of a battle axe, Krem suddenly came to his senses. The Inquisitor was now shrinking away from him. Tightening his grip on Lavellan’s shoulder, he tugged the elf back to him, and lifted a hand to rest it on the side of Lavellan’s face.

“Oh no you didn’t,” Krem said, then kissed the Inquisitor again.

This time, there was no hesitation. Krem poured himself into the kiss. The Inquisitor’s skin was so soft below his fingers – did all elves have skin this soft? This time, Krem dared to let his tongue dart out, tracing the edges of the Inquisitor’s lips, and felt a little thrill as Lavellan parted them, granting Krem access. Lavellan’s mouth was so hot, and his tongue against Krem’s was enough to cause his heart to leap up in his throat again.

Krem could have stayed kissing the Inquisitor in the pouring rain all night. But all too soon, he felt the pressure of Lavellan’s hands against his still-armored chest, gently pushing him away.

Krem met his gaze. “Yes, Your Worship?”

At that, Lavellan smiled. “Uh, Krem? I think it would be all right if you called me Mahanon.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Still smiling slightly, the Inquisitor then gently pried Krem’s hand off his shoulder, though he did squeeze it briefly before letting go. “I don’t know how to put this, but... well, I’m not interested in having sex.”

Krem felt simultaneously strangely relieved and vaguely disappointed. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do,” he said. “But we can’t stay out in the rain all night, either, so I suggest we do get some sleep.”

Relief washed over the Inquisitor’s face. He nodded.

Once back in the tent, Krem dug through his belongings until he found a couple of drying cloths, one which he handed to the Inquisitor. “Not trying to get you out of your clothes,” he said with a grin, “but they are soaked. Here, I can give you a shirt to sleep in.”

Drying his hair, Lavellan looked down at himself. Setting aside the clean tunic that Krem had offered him, he set aside the towel. He removed his beaded necklace first, setting that aside, before reaching for the fastenings of his mage robes.

“All right,” he said. “But for reasons I’m sure you can understand... please don’t tell anyone.”

Confused, Krem cocked an eyebrow. “Tell them what...?”

Lavellan didn’t speak again. Instead, he opened his voluminous robes, then shrugged his way out of them, letting them fall to the ground with a wet _squelch._

Krem stared at the Inquisitor’s now revealed body. Beneath the soaked robes, Lavellan’s skin-tight leather clung wetly to every curve and plane of his body, hiding nothing.

_Bloody bollocks,_ Krem thought with amusement, _I can’t believe that I couldn’t tell._

The Inquisitor was a man, all right.

Just like Krem.

 


	7. Tal-Vashoth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krem and the Inquisitor hit a bump in the road.

The morning after they’d shared a tent together, Lavellan had some additional business to tend to in the Storm Coast. Staying at the Inquisitor’s side, Bull had decided to send the Chargers ahead. So Krem didn’t have a chance to speak to Bull about what had happened with Gatt and the Dreadnaught until they were reunited at Skyhold again.

He found the Qunari in the training yard, sharpening his axe.

No big surprise there.

“Hey, Chief,” Krem called out as he approached. “That thing dull from hitting dragon scales? Or breaking open casks?”

Bull laughed. “Wish we’d been killing dragons. Heard of one in the Western Approach – one mean bastard. Trying to talk the boss into heading out there one of these days.”

The Western Approach was a long way to go. Still, if it meant glory for the Qunari, Bull would even travel to the heart of Tevinter.

In Bull’s eye, a twinkle. “Miss me, Krem de la Krem?”

Krem shrugged. “A couple of the barmaids might’ve been asking after you.”

The hand that had been sliding the whetstone across the axe’s edge slowed. For a moment, Bull looked contemplative, then he just grunted.

It wasn’t the answer that Krem had been expecting, given Bull’s seemingly insatiable libido. _Please tell me this has nothing to do with Dorian Pavus,_ Krem thought, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to bring up the mage. Shifting his weight, Krem crossed his arms and looked at Bull. With Bull sitting on the bench and Krem standing, they were nearly eye-to-eye.

“So,” Krem ventured. “Sucks what happened with Gatt.”

Bull’s hand ceased its motion as he became thoughtful again. Then he just huffed a sigh. “Yeah. It does.”

“So, what are you going to do? About being _Tal-Vashoth.”_

Bull eyed Krem for a long moment. Then he carefully set the whetstone aside on the bench, and let his weapon rest on the ground between his feet. “Nothing I can do about it, Krem,” he said. “Though, like I told the Inquisitor, I’ll have to find ways to fill up my free time now that I won’t be writing all those reports.”

Bull acting like he didn’t care about being exiled from his people? Krem knew it was exactly that: just an act. “Yeah, but, Chief –”

Bull held up a hand to indicate silence. “If I want to talk about it, Krem, you’ll be the first to know.”

Krem remained silent.

In Bull’s eye, the twinkle reappeared. “Besides,” he said. “I’d much rather talk about you and the Inquisitor. And anything fun that might have happened in that tent. Heh.”

Krem felt the heat rising to his face. “Umm... it ain’t, uh, any of your business, Chief.”

Bull chuckled to himself. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”

Silently, Krem cursed.

Standing up, Bull stretched. Then he clapped a hand down on his lieutenant’s shoulder. “You know... you might want to get on that, Krem. Sex is a good way to relieve tension. And the Inquisitor? He’s under a lot of pressure.”

His face grew even hotter. Probably red as a beet, given the amused way that Bull was now regarding him. “Glad you’re back, Chief,” Krem sputtered out. “But now I gotta go. Promised Grim I’d help him rearrange his sock drawer.”

As Krem tried to slip quickly away, Bull called out at his retreating back. “Just remember, Krem! The Inquisitor has drawers, too. And I’d bet he’d appreciate your skills at rearranging his _socks.”_

_Fucking flames!_ Continuing to flee, Krem called back over his shoulder without breaking stride. “Damn it, Chief! That wasn’t a euphemism!”

\------------------------------

An hour later, Krem was perched on his usual chair in the Herald’s Rest, listening to the bard and watching the door. When the Inquisitor finally stepped in, Krem felt a flutter in his chest, as if his rib cage held a dozen butterflies, and someone had just shaken it.

He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as Lavellan skirted the tables and made a bee-line for Krem’s corner. Today his hair was tied back, but he wore his usual large, concealing robes.

Scrambling to his feet, Krem nearly knocked over his chair. “Glad to see you made it back safely, Your Worship.”

Amusement flickered over Lavellan’s face. “Mahanon. Please,” he said. Then, smiling, he added, “I was hoping to find you here.”

If they had been alone, Krem would have reached for Lavellan’s hand. That night in the tent, they hadn’t had sex or even kissed again, but they had shared a bedroll. The entire journey back to Skyhold with the Chargers, Krem would catch himself thinking about how it had felt to lie there with the Inquisitor in his arms, Lavellan’s back pressed to his chest, and his nose buried in Lavellan’s damp hair. Which had smelled delightfully of lavender and soap. _Better than sleeping alone..._ he’d thought, and wondered when they might do it again.

Since the Inquisitor had revealed his secret, Krem had been wondering about another thing. “Mahanon? Your voice. I’d swear...”

Lavellan lifted a curious eyebrow. Then, as understanding dawned, he smiled. “It’s magic.”

Krem considered that. “If you can change your voice with it, then why don’t you use magic to change your body?”

Lavellan gave a lilting shrug. “I’m working on that,” he admitted. “It’s not that simple.” Cocking his head, he studied Krem with his usual serious expression. “If you had the chance to use magic, would you change all the way?”

It wasn’t the first time Krem had been asked that question. Coming from someone like himself, however, made it less intrusive. “What? No. I don’t want any magic like that within ten yards of my body,” he said automatically. Then, seeing Lavellan’s expression of surprise, he quickly added, “No offense intended.”

Lavellan’s expression changed to one of amusement. “No, I get it,” he said. Then his gaze swept slowly over Krem. His voice dropped to a low purr. “To be honest, I like your body as it is.”

Krem felt his stomach grown tight, his skin hot. “Uh... I thought you weren’t interested in that?”

Lavellan shrugged again. “I do have eyes, you know. I just...”

“What?”

Lavellan regarded him for a long moment, then he sighed. “I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us,” he said. “When I said that I wasn’t interested in sex? I didn’t just mean that night.”

Krem felt a flicker of trepidation. He and the Inquisitor weren’t even together. So why did it feel like they were about to break up? “What did you mean?”

Lavellan lifted a hand, fiddling with his beaded necklace. “I’ve never been interested. I don’t know why. I mean, I really like you. But as for sexual attraction? I just don’t feel it.”

Krem stared at him, trying to process. “So, then, you’ve never actually...?”

“I have,” Lavellan said. “I’ve tried it. But that ‘special feeling’ that everyone talks about? That’s never happened for me. And I don’t know if it ever will.”

Krem remained silent.

“I know that sex is important to some people. So I understand if you don’t want a relationship with me,” Lavellan said. “For most people? It’s a deal-breaker.”

“Yeah,” Krem said, thinking of Bull. For someone like the Chief, it would be impossible to live without sex. “It is.”

Krem had only meant to be sympathetic. He didn’t even realize how his words had been interpreted – that the Inquisitor believed that it was a deal-breaker for Krem – and was confused by the hurt that suddenly appeared on Lavellan’s face. Hurt that was quickly masked over. In his voice, a sudden coldness, his words clipped. “I think it’s better if I just go now,” he said. “And I think it’s best if we don’t speak again.”

The Inquisitor spun on his heel and hurried away.

Krem had been so certain that this was a break-up. Now, as he watched the Inquisitor slip away from him, he only felt one thing, and it hurt harder than he could have possibly imagined.

His heart, as it broke.

\------------------------------

_Cremisius Aclassi is a heartless brute._

That had been Dorian’s conclusion when the Inquisitor had come to him in the library that afternoon, upset. He’d been developing feelings for the lieutenant of the Chargers since the moment they’d met in Haven. Feelings he’d set aside due to his responsibilities as leader of the Inquisition. Feelings which he’d thought were reciprocated. But, it turned out, he’d been wrong.

Dorian was truly dismayed. He hadn’t meant to harm anyone by playing matchmaker. And certainly not his beloved Inquisitor.

Dorian listened. Soothed him by offering chocolate and tea from his private stash. Gave him words of encouragement. Told him he needed to focus on the work to be done. And to not trust anyone too much – especially Morrigan. Only the Maker knew what the consequences of her action of drinking at the Well would be.

The Inquisitor’s mood seemed to have lightened a bit by the time Dorian sent him off. Still, he was troubled by a nagging sense of guilt. If he hadn’t arranged for the Inquisitor to share a tent with Krem at the Storm Coast, would any of this have happened?

Later, he vented his frustration out at the only person who would understand: Bull.

“Your lieutenant broke the Inquisitor’s heart,” he complained as soon as he’d arrived in Bull’s room. “What, I’d like to know, is what you’re going to do about it.”

Bull’s eye narrowed. Then he grunted. “Breaking hearts? That doesn’t sound like Krem.”

Dorian snapped. “Regardless of what it sounds like, that it precisely what happened!”

Bull, sitting on his bed, now slowly folded his hands between his knees. “Don’t know what you expect me to do about it,” he said. “Unless you want me to order Krem to un-break the boss’s heart?”

Dorian paused, considering that. “Can’t you at least talk to him?”

Bull cocked his head. “Seems to me that I recall a certain ‘vint promising to keep his nose out of someone else’s business,” he said. “That includes setting tents on fire.”

Miffed, Dorian snorted. “Clearly, in looking for a sympathetic ear, I made a mistake in coming here,” he snapped. “Perhaps it’s better if I leave.”

Before Dorian could storm away, Bull’s arm shot out and he seized Dorian by the arm, stopping him. As Dorian glared up at him, Bull sighed. “Dorian. I don’t want to fight with you.”

Silent, still, Dorian just raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Look. Krem’s ga-ga over the Inquisitor. Never seen him so worked up before,” Bull said. “But you need to let the two of them work it out.”

Dorian pulled free from Bull’s grasp. Reluctantly, he said, “I suppose you may be right.”

“I know I’m right,” Bull said. “Now – why don’t we go to the Herald’s Rest? I’ll buy you a drink.”

Dorian paused. _Go out with Bull? In public?_ “Is this a date?”

Bull grinned. “You can call it a date if you want,” he said. “Then, after, I have something I want to give you.”

Dorian snickered. “I bet you do.”

At Dorian’s lascivious tone, Bull chuckled. “That’s not what I meant, though I’d be happy to fulfill any... desires.”

Funny how just the thought of Bull fulfilling his desires could send a little thrill through him. “So... wait. You mean you actually got me a present?”

“Something like that.”

“In that case, I don’t want to wait. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been gifted with anything? I’d rather open it now, then you can buy me a drink.”

Bull paused. Then he laughed again. “Damn, ‘Vint. You’re very demanding.” As Dorian rolled his eyes, Bull reached over to the bedside table. Opening the drawer, he pulled out a small box, adorned with a simple red ribbon.

Accepting the gift, Dorian sat down on the edge of the bed. His elegant brown fingers unknotted the ribbon, then cast it aside. Bull had never given him a present before, so he was baffled by what it could possibly be. Aware that the Qunari was watching him closely, Dorian ignored him and reached for the lid, holding his breath.

He paused for a moment.

Then he opened the box.

\------------------------------

_I think it’s best if we don’t speak again._

Those had been the Inquisitor’s last words to him. Festering inside his heart, like poison. He was so fixated on his own pain that he couldn’t even think about what had happened clearly.

Krem wasn’t stupid, though. Replaying the conversation, it occurred to him what had really being going on. He’d been so busy being afraid of rejection that he had overlooked the fact that the Inquisitor had been afraid that Krem was going to reject _him._ All because the Inquisitor wasn’t sexually attracted to him.

Krem, on the other hand, needed both hands in order to count the number of times he’d fantasized about sex with the Inquisitor. At first, in his fantasies, the Inquisitor had been a full-blooded male. Once he’d found out the truth, Krem had adjusted his fantasies so they matched the reality of the Inquisitor’s body. Knowing hadn’t cooled his ardor. If anything, having this in common only made Krem more comfortable with the idea of actually having sex with the man.

Except that the Inquisitor had confessed that he wasn’t interested in sex.

Krem searched his feelings about that. _How can you be with someone who doesn’t want you?_ Maybe it was selfish of him to feel that way. But he’d waited so long to find someone. Someone with whom he could share his mind, body, and soul. And the fact that he was willing to share his body with the Inquisitor could only mean that his feelings were real.

Krem almost laughed at himself when the epiphany hit. _I’m in love with the Inquisitor._

He nearly ran out to find Lavellan right then. But it was late. And he didn’t know where the Inquisitor was. And a dozen other excuses. When the truth was that he was scared to confess his feelings.

Instead, he returned to his room. Where he found Stitches, sitting on his own bed, writing in his leather-bound journal. Krem had asked him about it once, long ago. Stitches’ book was a combination of herbal lore, medicinal interventions, and personal diary, and he wrote in it religiously.

He greeted the healer. Not knowing what else to do with himself, Krem made a half-hearted effort to tidy up his half of the room. Laundry he’d washed earlier sat in a heap on his bed. As he folded his shirts neatly, his thoughts continued to wander back to the Inquisitor.

Adding the last shirt to the pile and reaching for a pair of pants, Krem glanced at the healer. One of the things he liked about Stitches was the man’s ability for discretion. Unlike a certain Qunari they both worked for. “Hey,” Krem said. “Can I ask you a question?”

Stitches glanced up from his writing. “What is it?”

“You ever hear of anyone who just wasn’t interested in sex?”

Stitches very carefully set aside his quill, his expression serious. “You know that some believe that sexuality is a spectrum,” he said. “On the one hand, there are people who are highly sexual, to the point of being obsessed with it. On the other, there are people who have no interest in it whatsoever. Though most people I think to fall somewhere in-between these two extremes.”

Krem thought. “So, you’re saying it’s normal.”

“Perhaps not common, but, yes, completely normal.” Stitches regarded him for a moment. “If someone’s pressuring you, Krem,” he added gravely, “you have every right to say no.”

_We weren’t talking about me,_ Krem thought wryly, but opted not to say so. “Can I ask you something else?” When Stitches nodded, Krem asked, “You ever been in love?”

The Ferelden smiled – a knowing thing. “A hundred times,” he said. “But, seriously? Just once. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering how you can show someone that you love them. I mean, other than just telling them.”

Thoughtful, Stitches ran a finger along the edge of his journal. “Well, there are many ways,” he said. “Little things, like talk to them. Listen to them. Find activities they like to do. Take them out to dinner. And, if none of those work, you could try candy or flowers, though those are a little cliché. I think it’s better to give a gift that’s special. Something no one can give them.”

Krem considered that. Talking and listening – yeah, he’d been doing that all along. And he’d already taken the Inquisitor out to lunch. As for activities, well, the Inquisitor was probably too busy, and a moonlight walk on the beach was out of the question. Which left presents. But he didn’t know if the Inquisitor even liked candy. Or flowers.

Krem’s eye fell on the sewing kit he kept next to the bed. In it, he had a pile of pink fabric. And he’d even recently managed to finally find a spool of pink thread.

_Of course._

Krem sewed his heart out that night.

In the morning, he made an effort with his appearance. Fussed with his hair – not that there was much he could do with it, given how short he kept it. Changed his outfit more than twice – not that he had a lot of clothes, since, when he was with the Chargers, he tended to travel light. And he even perfumed himself with a touch of something from one of Stitches’ vials of fragrant oils.

The gift for the Inquisitor tucked safely away in the bag he’d slung over his shoulder, he headed out.

It was a clear, sunny day in Skyhold. He crossed through the training yard, where there was no sign of Bull, just some of Cullen’s troops running through drills. Into the main building proper, where he braced himself before the stairs that led to the Inquisitor’s quarters.

A familiar voice floated over his shoulder. “If you’re looking for the Inquisitor, he isn’t here.”

Krem spun around. Dorian stood behind him, with a somewhat sour look on his face.

“In fact,” Dorian continued with a wave of his hand, “he isn’t even in Skyhold. He had some business to take care of with Morrigan at the Altar of Mythal. They left this morning.”

Krem felt a wave of disappointment crash down over him. He’d finally worked up the nerve to show the Inquisitor how he felt, and now he’d have to wait.

Dorian crossed his arms, one hand toying with a pendant around his neck. “The Inquisitor is my friend, you know. What you did? It hurt him. So if you haven’t come to apologize, then... well, I’m not going to stand by and let you hurt him again.”

Dorian’s words felt like little needle stabs. Krem swallowed down his anger. “It was just a misunderstanding,” Krem said. “Hurting the Herald is the last thing I want to do.”

Dorian paused. Eyes narrowed, he regarded Krem as if judging the veracity of his words. Then, seemingly satisfied that Krem was telling the truth, he gave another airy wave of his hand. “I hope you mean that. Because if you don’t, you’ll be sorry.”

That pendant around Dorian’s neck? It was half of a dragon’s tooth. Krem didn’t need to be told what it meant, or who was wearing the other half. “Same to you, if you hurt Bull.”

There was a flash of indignation. But Dorian didn’t respond in anger. Instead he just nodded. “That would only be fair,” he said. Then, without another word, he turned and walked off.

Krem watched the mage striding off. Thought for a moment. Then he climbed the stairs.

The Inquisitor’s quarters were neat and tidy – clothing hung, the bed made, the curtains wide open, letting in the strong mountain light. Only the desk, scattered with maps, letters and other papers, was in a state of disarray.

Reaching into his bag, Krem pulled out the stuffed nug he’d made last night and set it in the middle of the desk. Standing there in the empty room, Krem considered the toy. Would it be enough to get his message across?

In a fit of inspiration, Krem found a blank scrap of parchment. He found a pen, then dipped the pen into a bottle of ink. Hand hovering over the page, he knew the three words he wanted to write:

_I am sorry._

Except, when the nib actually touch the page and the ink began to flow, Krem wrote three different words.

 


	8. Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition and Bull's Chargers take a final stand against Corypheus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! I hope you enjoyed my little Krem tale. A great big thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments. :) 
> 
> May Andraste smile upon you.

Upon his return from the Altar of Mythal, the Inquisitor headed straight for the War Room where his advisers – Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine – were waiting for him.

“Did you... find what you need, Morrigan?” Leliana asked, as subtle as ever.

As cocky as ever, Morrigan boasted that she could match Corypheus’ dragon.

As First of his clan, Lavellan had seen all sorts of strange magics in his lifetime. But nothing had quite equaled the cold, pure power that seemed to flow off the Witch of the Wilds. He couldn’t have explained it, but his instincts told him that this power was very real indeed, and nothing to be trifled with. So when all eyes flicked to him for confirmation, he nodded.

Cullen, as tactical as always, suggested that they strike. Leliana pointed out that they still didn’t know where to find Corypheus and his dragon. Then, all three of the advisers were bickering.

Again.

Lavellan sighed inwardly. Cullen was right – they now had everything they needed for the final showdown, and it would be better to strike first, instead of waiting for the enemy to come to them. Except that Corypheus had virtually disappeared off the map.

Suddenly, beyond his control, the mark on the Inquisitor’s hand flared to life, filling the room with eerie green light.

Through the windows they watched the Breach in the sky as it began to swirl to life.

In the ensuing silence, Morrigan turned to the Inquisitor. “It seems that Corypheus is not content to wait.”

It took Lavellan a moment to piece it together. His mark... the Breach... “He’s in the Valley of Sacred Ashes?” he said, half-statement, half-question.

Morrigan arched one challenging eyebrow. “You either close the Breach once more, or it swallows the world.”

Lavellan resisted the urge to tell Morrigan to stop being so melodramatic. Except that he was slightly concerned that she would bite his head off. And, with her new powers, that could be literally. Wisely, he opted to remain silent.

His advisers were also silent for a moment. Then Cullen spoke. “Inquisitor – we have no forces to send with you. We must wait for them to return from the Arbor Wilds.”

“I must go now,” Lavellan said. “Before it’s too late.”

The advisers exchanged glances. “As you wish, Inquisitor,” Cullen said. “I will fight by your side.”

“As will I,” Morrigan added.

Lavellan nodded. “Cullen. Gather the inner circle. We will meet at the front gate in half an hour.”

Cullen practically snapped to attention. “Yes, Inquisitor,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Inquisitor – we still have the Chargers. Should I tell Bull to assemble his men?”

_The Chargers... Krem..._ Lavellan, even now, did not want to put the Chargers in danger. But to refuse the extra men would be foolhardy. Separating his heart from his head, he made the practical decision.

Once he’d given the order, he retired to his quarters to prepare for the battle ahead.

Climbing the stairs, his thoughts were as gloomy as his surroundings. Despite his show of bravado in the War Room, and despite Morrigan’s assurances that she could handle the dragon, Lavellan didn’t expect any of them to survive. He was certain that he was leading his friends to their doom. And, although his decision to bring the Chargers had been a tactical one, the guilt felt as if someone had hammered a spike into his heart.

_Krem,_ he thought as he reached the landing of his darkened rooms, _we may have not lived together, but at least we will die together._

It was a strangely comforting thought.

Stepping into the room, he used magic to kindle a small flame in his hand. Glancing around, he noted that everything was as he had left it, except for one crucial detail.

Lavellan’s heart skipped a beat.

Someone had left a stuffed nug perched on his papers and maps.

He rushed to the desk. Along with the toy, someone had left him a note. Greedily he snatched it up.

The note was short. Only three words. But the Inquisitor read them over and over. And every time he read them, he felt his heart lifting, infused with the purest joy.

Suddenly, he had a reason to live.

\-------------------------------

The Inquisitor led the march to the Valley of Sacred Ashes.

Under the Inquisitor’s orders, Bull and the Chargers were taking up the rear guard. As usual before any battle, Krem was a knot of tension. He’d checked his weapon and his armor a dozen times during the march. Except that this was no ordinary fight. The final showdown.

Once they had assembled in the courtyard with the inner circle and a handful of soldiers, the Inquisitor had given a short but rousing speech. His voice rang out, clear as a bell, and the fires of conviction burned in his eyes. Then, after the speech, his eyes had scanned through the crowd, stopping to rest on Krem, who stood near the back. As the Inquisitor’s gaze lingered upon him, he had smiled briefly, warmly, just for Krem. And Krem had felt something.

Hope.

As they marched closer to their doom, Krem kept craning his neck to see up front, and was occasionally rewarded with a glimpse of his beloved Inquisitor. If he hadn’t had years of being a soldier, trained to blindly follow orders, ingrained into him, he probably would have broken ranks to run up to the front, just to speak to the Inquisitor one last time before the battle.

_I will protect him at all costs,_ Krem thought. Even if it meant putting himself between the Inquisitor and Corypheus himself. Because he feared losing Lavellan more than he feared his own death.

Except that he didn’t have a chance.

Dorian, who had been at the front, now dropped back to Bull’s side. “Well, this is it,” he said, in a voice that was too chipper, given their impending doom. “Just promise me that you won’t get yourself killed.”

Bull’s laugh was low and dark. “I wasn’t planning on it. Not sure I have much choice in the matter, though,” he said. Then his expression became sober. “Watch out for yourself, _Kadan.”_

As they approached, there was already a skirmish between the shock troops who had been sent ahead and a small army of demons spawned from the Breach. In that moment, Krem got his first look at the darkspawn magister from a distance: tall, with long, spindly arms, he was half-man, half-monster.

A shudder ran down his spine.

The Inquisitor strode straight into the battle zone. Even from the back of the ranks, despite the whipping wind, the Inquisitor’s voice carried. “It ends here, Corypheus!”

And then the unexpected happened.

Red streaks of magical light burst through the sky. Those closer to the front stumbled, as those towards the back struggled to hold their ground as the earth began to shake. Clouds of billowing dust scattered as the earth itself cracked open, then ripped away. The rock upon which the darkspawn stood rose up into the air, taking the Inquisitor with it, along with Cassandra, Solas and Blackwall, separating them from the rest of the troops.

Frozen helplessly in horror, all Krem could do for a moment was stare as his entire world flipped itself upside down.

Before he could do anything, the rift above them crackled to life, spilling shadowed shapes with long claws and sharper teeth.

“Shit,” Bull muttered as he hefted his battle axe in both hands. “Why’d it have to be demons?”

The ensuing clash was chaos. As if they held a personal vendetta against the Inquisition, the demons rushed straight at them, clawing and striking with inhuman strength. Immediately Krem braced himself as he raised his sword, ready to defend himself and his men.

Steel flashed, blood spilled. Human cries mixed with the odd hissing of the demons. Krem dodged, feinted, attacked. The dust had barely settled, the mist around them hot and thick. Already sweat was dripping down Krem’s brow, but he did not dare spare a moment to wipe it away, too engaged in the fight as wave after wave smashed into them.

Through the din, he heard a blood-curdling scream. _Skinner?_ Krem tried to push his way through the fray, but in the spot where he stood, the bodies were too thick. Screaming in rage, Krem bashed an enemy with his shield, then spun around to stab another with his sword. Hot blood splashed across his face. Over and over he repeated this action.

Sweat stung his eyes now, and he struggled to see. The bodies were piling up at his feet. Whirling just in time, he managed to block a demon’s attack with his shield. Seizing Krem’s shield in its hands, the demon then ripped it clear off Krem’s arm. In the hand that had been holding the shield, Krem felt something snap.

The demon tossed Krem’s shield aside, then pounced.

The full weight of the demon knocked Krem down to the ground. Raising his sword, he was just able to keep the demon at bay as its teeth snapped at his neck. Ignoring the excruciating pain, Krem slithered his injured hand down to his belt. Knife unsheathed in his fist, he somehow managed to reach up and slam the blade up to the hilt into the side of the demon’s throat.

Blood gushed.

The demon hissed in pain. Its many eyes stared at Krem with hatred and rage for a moment. Then the eyes dulled over, and the demon slumped down, nearly crushing Krem with its dead weight.

It took every ounce of his strength, but Krem managed to push and kick the demon’s corpse off him. Staggering to his feet, he quickly scanned the battlefield.

Bodies littered the rocks. He prayed to the Maker that his friends and comrades were not among them. Then, several yards away, he spotted Skinner. Her face was covered with blood, and one of her arms dangled uselessly by her side, but she was alive and fighting.

Not far from Skinner, he spotted Rocky, Grim and Dalish, relieved that they appeared to be unharmed.

Scanning again, his eye fell upon a small skirmish up near the edge of the broken earth at the top of the hill. In the middle of it stood Bull, completely surrounded. Roaring, he spun in a circle, swinging his axe, in an attempt to keep his attackers at bay. Then, as if a signal had been given, all the demons jumped towards Bull. Krem watched in horror as the massive Qunari, outnumbered, went down.

“Chief! No!” Krem screamed, already running towards the spot where Bull had been standing only mere seconds ago. Except that his feet weren’t moving fast enough. In a moment, it would be too late.

And, then, as if by magic, Dorian appeared at the crest of the hill. Shouting unintelligibly, he then slammed his mage staff down into the ground. Deep blue sparks showered the ground around him, followed by a tremor that rippled the earth, kicking up ash and dust. Even from a distance Krem could see the ripple expanding, picking up momentum as it grew into increasingly larger concentric circles, at which Dorian was the epicenter.

In a moment the wall of force hit the writhing sea of demons. Struck by the powerful spell, each demon was blasted up into the air, screaming as they each turned to ash.

Krem silently thanked the Maker as Bull slowly rose to his feet, scratched to shit, but otherwise appearing unharmed, saved by Dorian’s magic spell.

They’d defeated the bulk of the demon army. Leaving the stragglers to the others, Krem jogged over to Bull. Half-breathless, he panted out, “You okay, Chief?”

“Yeah, thanks to Dorian,” he said. “Magic is creepy shit, but it does sometimes come in handy.”

Dorian sauntered over, wearing a pleased little smirk. “Oh, it was nothing, really,” he said, though it was anything but modest. “In fact, I wasn’t even sure that spell was going to work.”

Bull cocked his head at the mage. “Made my teeth tingle, but it did stop all those demons from eating me, so... good.” Bull then turned to Krem. “How’re my boys?”

Krem shrugged. “A couple of scratches, Chief, but nothing serious,” he said, opting to gloss over Skinner’s busted arm and his own broken fingers, which were still throbbing painfully. “Told you demons wouldn’t be no match for the Chargers!”

Bull’s eye narrowed as he scowled. “You told me that there wouldn’t be _many_ , Krem,” he corrected.

Krem shrugged.

Before anyone could speak again, a loud noise like thunder cracked across the sky. Looking up, they watched in wonder as the Breach began to waver, its edges shrinking in until the entire rift was nothing more than a glowing scar in the sky.

The Breach had closed.

Which meant that the Inquisitor had won.

Silence fell.

“Well,” Bull finally said, and jerked an indicating thumb in the direction of the slab of rock that Corypheus had caused to rise up into the air. “I guess that’s our cue to find a way up that thing.”

\-------------------------------

Clean smallclothes. Check.

Binder. Check.

His best shirt, clean and ironed to look its best. Check.

His favorite pants, the ones that hung just so, low on his hips. Check.

Boots, polished to a high sheen. Check.

There had never been a real party at Skyhold before, so he wanted to look his best.

One thing that they didn’t have in their room was a mirror. So he had to use Stitches. “How do I look?”

Stitches’ hands, which had been knotting his cravat, suddenly became still as he looked up at Krem. His gaze swept slowly up and down the lieutenant, taking in every detail. Then he nodded. “You look handsome,” he said. “Manly.”

Krem glanced down at himself. “You don’t think I need the vest?”

Stitches considered his question most seriously. Then he said, “Show me.”

Krem slipped into the vest of fancy dark brocade. He couldn’t remember where they’d picked it up – part of the spoils from one of their many ventures – but it had fit him perfectly, so Bull had encouraged him to keep it. He’d never had a reason to wear it until now. Once he’d buttoned it up – no easy task with one broken hand – he waited for Stitches’ appraisal.

“I like it,” he said after a moment. “Formal without being too formal. You should wear it. Ready?”

“Yeah,” Krem said. He waited a few seconds more while the healer put the finishing touches on his own outfit – buttoning his cuffs and putting a small golden hoop in his ear – then they were out the door and on their way to the main hall.

Josephine and Leliana had spent the entire day preparing for the victory party. Even from his usual hangout in the tavern, Krem was not oblivious to the bustle in Skyhold. Cooks had been whipped into a fury of pastry-making, servants had made and hung decorations, and even soldiers had been conscripted to transport the many long tables and chairs for the feast. From Bull he’d heard a rumor that Dorian had contributed by using magic to help create decorative ice sculptures. And, when he’d talked to the bartender, he’d been told that the Inquisition had bought up most of the tavern’s wine and ale.

Krem hadn’t spoken to the Inquisitor since their return from the Valley of Sacred Ashes. In fact, he hadn’t spoken to the Inquisitor since that moment after the demon battle when he and the others had indeed found a way up the rocks. Lavellan had taken a beating, but he and his companions were still alive. While everyone marveled at the fact that they had actually won, Krem had stepped up to the front of the crowd and looked up at the elf.

In that moment, Krem meant to say something profound. To speak from his heart, which was now overflowing with relief and happiness.

Instead, he’d just blurted out, _Glad you’re not dead, Your Worship._

Lavellan had just smiled at him. For a moment, they remained still, their gazes locked, looking at each other as if they were the only two men left in the world. And then the others had all started talking at once.

Then, on the return march, the Chargers took rear guard again, leaving Krem to only catch an occasional glimpse of the Inquisitor.

If Lavellan hadn’t seen his note before they’d left for the Valley, he’d certainly seen it by now. Krem hadn’t expected the Inquisitor to come run straight into his arms or anything, but he had been waiting impatiently and anxiously for the man’s response to his confession.

Now, climbing the stairs, he and Stitches caught up to a small group of party-goers. Unable to pass by them, Krem silently fumed as the group, chatting and laughing gaily, continued their leisurely ascent.

_Balls,_ Krem thought at their colorfully-garbed backs. _Move._

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, they arrived at the top of the stairs and walked into the Great Hall.

All in all, the atmosphere was festive. Lights twinkled above like stars. The room was already more than half-full, and buzzed with conversation. Near the throne, a stringed quartet played soft music. Tables lined the walls, filled with a cornucopia of meats, cheeses and breads, and rows of both goblets of wine and tankards of ale. Animal and dragon ice sculptures were scattered upon the long tables where the party-goers already sat, and colorful streamers and banners warmed up the usually cold stone of the immense walls.

Stitches drifted ahead as Krem stopped near the entrance to scan the room. He didn’t see the person he most wanted to see, but he did spot Bull sitting with some of the Chargers at one of the tables not too far from him. Sighing inwardly, he made his way over.

“Hey, Krem,” Bull greeted him. “How’s the hand?”

Krem lifted his left hand, then turned it over so that Bull could see the bandages, which were new, clean and tied off neatly. “Broke two fingers,” he said. “But Stitches says they should heal up just fine.”

“Could have been worse,” Bull said, which was an understatement if Krem had ever heard one, given how close they’d all been to being some demons’ _dinner._ Then Bull grinned. “Relax, Krem. Have a drink. There’s even _Maraas-Lok,_ thanks to the Inquisitor.”

Krem cocked an eyebrow. “If you mean that piss you Qunari like to drink, then no thanks. I like my stomach without holes in it.”

Bull laughed.

A voice floated over Krem’s shoulder. “It’s good to see that not all your men don’t share your taste for that ghastly concoction you call alcohol.”

Krem didn’t have to turn around. He knew that haughty voice, tinged with an upper-class Tevinter accent. But he did glance over his shoulder in acknowledgment. Behind him, Dorian stood, in an almost statuesque pose, one arm crossed, and the other whose hand held a wine goblet extravagantly aloft. As Krem nodded politely to him, Dorian’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. Then, composing himself, he took a sip of wine.

“No need to gang up on me,” Bull groused. “Long as the drinks keep coming, then we should all be happy.”

Krem huffed a breath. “In that case, I’d better go get happy,” he said.

“Good man,” Bull rumbled, returning his attention to his cup.

As Krem turned, he paused as he began to pass by Dorian. Laying a hand lightly on Dorian’s shoulder, he leaned in, speaking softly into the mage’s ear. “Hey. I saw what you did for the Chief in the fight,” he said. “You got him out of some deep shit, so... thanks.”

Dorian’s expression changed to one of utter incredulity. Then, as quickly as it his face had changed, it changed again, smoothing over into something placid. “I didn’t do it for you,” Dorian said mildly. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Words weren’t Krem’s strong point, and he was moderately certain that the mage had accepted his offered olive branch. Dropping his hand, he moved on.

At the banquet table, he picked up a goblet of wine and popped a piece of cheese into his mouth. As he chewed, he let his gaze scan the room again.

This time, his eyes found the Inquisitor.

He wore different robes tonight, all silks and velvet. Although they still hid his body, they were a luscious deep blue color, and embroidered beautifully with silver thread. He was speaking to Cassandra, his silken sleeves fluttering as he gesticulated. His hair was down tonight, a dark frame around his handsome face.

Krem watched from a distance as the Inquisitor circulated through the room, stopping to chat briefly with nearly every guest. Krem decided right there that he could watch the Inquisitor all night. Slowly sipping his wine, Krem followed him. From his distance, he couldn’t hear the words, but he could see the sparkle of light in Lavellan’s eyes, the movements of his lush lips, and the sweep of his slender hands. At least until Lavellan stopped to speak with Dorian. Suddenly curious, Krem stealthily made his way closer until he could just make out their voices in the noisy din.

He caught the end of Lavellan’s words. “– be returning to Tevinter now?”

Dorian shrugged lightly. “No, actually. I was thinking of sticking around… for a while.”

Lavellan lifted an eyebrow. “Would that have anything to do with Iron Bull?”

For a moment, Dorian didn’t answer. “It might,” he finally said softly. Lifting his gaze, his eyes fell upon Krem, standing a few feet away. Dorian waited until Lavellan’s gaze followed his, then added, “You know how it is.”

Krem’s gaze locked with the Inquisitor’s for a moment. As Lavellan looked at him, Krem felt his heart jump, his stomach tie itself in knots, and his legs grow weak.

_Shit._ Feeling awkward that he’d been caught eavesdropping, Krem backed up into the crowd, moving out of earshot. But not so far away that he couldn’t still see the Inquisitor, who’d returned to his conversation with Dorian. A few moments passed, then Dorian moved away.

The Inquisitor glanced around the room. For a moment he remained still, as if waiting for someone to approach him. Then, when no one did, he turned and headed towards the door that led to his quarters.

Krem had been watching him all evening. He’d spoken to everyone except Krem. Krem wondered briefly if the Inquisitor wanted him to follow, or if the man were simply exhausted and needed some time alone.

He hesitated only a few seconds, then pushed his way through the crowd until he’d caught up with Lavellan, one slim hand on the latch of the door. “Leaving already, Your Worship?”

Lavellan turned. Seeing Krem, his face lit up. “I’m not a big fan of parties,” he admitted. “Josephine insisted, so I couldn’t say no.”

Krem took another step forward, lowering his voice. “So... you were just going to run off without talking to me. Is that it?”

The Inquisitor cocked his head. Then he smiled. “We’re talking now, aren’t we?”

_That smile._ It emboldened him. Stepping forward again, Krem reached up and put both of his hands on Lavellan’s shoulders, mindful of his damaged fingers. “I think...” he said slowly as he pushed Lavellan gently backwards towards the door, “...that it’s time that you and I had a talk _in private.”_

Lavellan’s eyes widened as his back bumped up against the door. Raising his hands in surrender, he allowed Krem to push him in past the threshold. With his foot, Krem kicked the door shut behind them.

A moment later, they were standing in the Inquisitor’s quarters.

Upon the desk sat the stuffed nug that Krem had left for him.

Not speaking, Lavellan floated across the room towards the balcony. Krem watched him for a moment, then followed.

It was a warm night for the Frostbacks. Stars quilted the sky, casting soft light down on the snow-capped purple mountains. Side by side, the two men leaned on the balcony railing and considered the view.

Turning, Krem then considered Lavellan’s fine profile. “So, now that the Inquisition has saved the world, what are you gonna do?”

Gray eyes turned to meet his. “It’s not over yet,” he said. “There’s still much for the Inquisition to accomplish.” Then he added, “You know, I spoke to Bull. I told him that the Inquisition could still use the Chargers. I promised that I’d find him the best fights. Maybe even a dragon or two. He said he’d think about it.”

In his chest, Krem felt his heart lift. And he knew that he’d soon be having a chat with the Chief about how the Chargers should stay. “Sounds like you’re saying you don’t want me to go.”

“I...” Lavellan began, then dropped his gaze, awkwardly clearing his throat. Lifting his eyes again, he blurted out, “I got your note. And I... I love you, too.”

Krem felt his heart drop, landing somewhere in his boots. Not knowing what else to say, he sputtered out, “You sure?”

Smiling, Lavellan reached out a hand towards Krem’s right one. His touch was cool as he entwined his fingers with Krem’s. “I can’t promise a physical relationship,” he said. “But I want to be with you, Krem. I want you to stay.”

Krem had already made his decision.

_Sex? Whatever_.

Krem stayed.

_And love?_

In the years that followed, there was more than enough.

 


End file.
